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5 



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A NATOL : A SEQUENCE OF 
ZA DIALOGUES BY ARTHUR 
^ ^SCHNITZLER; PARAPHRASED 
FOR THE ENGLISH STAGE BY 
GRANVILLE BARKER 




NEW YORK: MITCHELL KENNERLEY 
MCMXI 



Copyright i^ii by 
Mitchell Kennerley 




Control Number 




tiiip96 029121 



"^fj- 7' Little & I'ves Co., New York 



©Ci.A292163 



JT seems that in a faithful translation the 
peculiar charm of these dialogues will 
disappear. To recreate it exactly in Eng- 
lish one must be another Schnitzler: which 
is absurd. This is the only excuse I can 
offer for my paraphrase. 

H. G. B. 



Anatol 

PAGE 

1 Ask no Questions and You'll Hear no Stories i 

2 A Christmas Present 19 
j 3 An Episode 33 

4 Keepsakes 51 

5 A Farewell Supper 63 

6 Dying Pangs 83 

7 The Wedding Morning 99 



I 



ASK NO QUESTIONS AND YOU'LL 
HEAR NO STORIES 



ASK NO QUESTIONS AND YOU'LL 
HEAR NO STORIES 



ANATOL, an idle young bachelor, lives in a charmvng 
flat in Vienna, That he has taste, besides means 
to indulge it, may be seen by his rooms, the furni- 
ture he buys, the pictures he hangs on the walls. 
And if such things indicate character, one would 
judge, first by the material comfort of the place 
and then by the impatience for new ideas which 
his sense of what is beautiful to live with seems 
to show, that though a hedonist, he is sceptical of 
even that easy faith. Towards dusk one after- 
noon he comes home bringing with him his friend 
MAX. They reach the sitting-room, talhmg . . . 

MAX. Well, Anatol, I envy you. 
ANATOL. My dear Max! 

MAX. Perfectly astonishing, I've always said it 
was all tricks. But he went off to sleep under my 
very eyes . . . and then he danced when you told him 
he was a ballet dancer and cried when you said his 
sweetheart was dead . . . and he sentenced that crimi- 
nal very soundly when you'd made him a judge. 

ANATOL. Didn't he? 

MAX. It's wizardry! 

ANATOL. We can all be wizards to some extent. 

3 



lANATOL 



MAX. Perfectly uncanny. 

ANATOL. Not more so than much else m life . . . not 
more uncanny than lots we've been finding out the 
last hundred years. If you'd suddenly proved to one 
of our ancestors that the world went round, he'd 
have turned giddy. 

MAX. But this seems super- natural. 

ANATOii. So must anything strange. What would 
a man think if he'd never seen a sunrise before, or 
watched the spring arrive . . . the trees and the 
flowers . . . and then felt himself falling in love. 

MAX. Mesmerism . . . 

ANATOii. Hypnotism. 

MAX. Yes . . . I'll take cart no one ever does it to 
me. 

ANATOX.. Where's the harm.? I tell you to go to 
sleep. You settle down comfortably ... off you go . . . 

MAX. Then you tell me I'm a chimney-sweep, and 
up the chimney I go and get all over soot. 

ANATOL. But, you know, it has great scientific 
possibilities. We're hardly on the threshold of them 
yet . . . worse luck. 

MAX. Why worse luck.?^ 

ANATOL. I could make what I liked of the world 
for that fellow an hour ago. Can I shift it a jot from 
what it damnably is for myself.? 

MAX. Can't you.? 

ANATOL. Haven't I tried.? I've stared and stared 
at this ring of mine, saying Sleep . . . and then wake 
with this little wretch that's driving you mad, gone 
clean from your mind. 

4 



ASK NO QUESTIONS 



MAX. Still the same little wretch? 

ANATOL. Of course. I'm damned wretched. 

MAX. And still suspecting her? 

ANATOL. Not a bit of it. I know perfectly well 
that she's untrue to me. She puts her arms round 
my neck and kisses me, and we're happy. But all 
the time ... as sure as she's standing there ... I 
know that she's . . . 

MAX. Oh, nonsense! 

ANATOI.. Is it ! 

MAX. Then how do you know? 

ANATOii. When I feel a thing as I feel this ... it 
must be true. 

MAX. That's unarguable, anyhow. 

ANATOL. Besides, girls of this sort always are un- 
faithful. It comes naturally to them . . . it's a sort of 
instinct. Just as I have two or three books that I 
read at a time, they must keep two or three men 
hanging around. 

MAX. But doesn't she love you ? 

ANATOL. What difference does that make? 

MAX. Who's the other man? 

ANATOL. How do I know? Some one has seen her 
in the shop. Some one has made eyes at her in the 
train going home. 

MAX. Rubbish! 

ANATOL. Why? All she wants is to have a good 
time without thinking about it. I ask her if she 
loves me. She says Yes . . . and it's perfectly true. 
Then . . . Am I the only man she loves ? She says 

5 



ANATOL 



Yes again . . . and that's true, too, for the time being. 
For the time being she's forgotten the other fellow. 
Besides . . . what else can a woman say? She can't 
tell you. . . . No, my darling, the very moment your 
back is turned . . . ! Still ... I wish I knew for 
certain. 

MAX. My dear Anatol, if she really loves you . . . 

ANATOi.. Oh, innocent! I ask you what has that 
to do with it? 

MAX. A great deal, I should hope. 

ANATOL. Then why am I not true to her.? I really 
love her, don't 1? 

MAX. You're a man. 

ANATOL. Thank you . . • it only needed that ! Of 
course ... we are men and women are different. Some ! 
If their mammas lock them up or if they're little 
fishes. Otherwise, my dear Max, women and men are 
very much alike . . . especially women. And if I swear 
to one of them that she's the only woman I love, is 
that lying to her . . . just because the night before 
I've been saying the same thing to another.'^ 

MAX. Well . . . speak for yourself. 

ANATOL. Cold-blooded, correct gentleman ! I'm 
afraid dear Hilda's rather less like you than she is 
like me. Perhaps she isn't . . . but perhaps she is. 
I'd give a lot to know. I might go on my knees 
and swear I'd forgiven her already . . . but she'd 
lie to me just the same. Haven't I been begged 
with tears a dozen times ... for God's sake to tell 
them if I'm true. They won't say an angry word if 
I'm not . . . only tell them. Then I've lied . . . calmly 

6 



ASK NO QUESTIONS 



and cheerfully. And quite right too. Why should 
I make poor women wretched.^ They've believed in 
me and been happy. 

MAX. Very well, then . . . 

ANATOL. But I don't believe in her and I'm not 
happy. Oh ... if some one could invent a way to 
make these dear damnable little creatures speak the 
truth! 

MAX. What about your hypnotism? 

ANATOL. My . , . ? 

MAX. Put her to sleep and draw it like a tooth. 

ANATOL. I could. 

MAX. What an opportunity. 
ANATOL. Isn't it? 

MAX. Does she love you ... or who else is it ? 
Where's she just been . . . where's she going? What's 
his name . . . ? 

ANATOL. Oh, if I knew that! 

MAX. But you've only to ask her . . . 

ANATOL. And she must answer. 

MAX. You lucky fellow! 

ANATOL. Yes ... I am. It'll be my own fault if 
I worry any more, won't it? She's under my thumb 
now, isn't she? 

MAX. I say . . . I'm curious to know. 

ANATOL. Why . . . d'you think she's not straight? 

MAX. Oh . . . may nobody think it but you ? 

ANATOL. No, nobody may. When you've just 
found your wife in another man's arms and an old 
friend meets you and says Poor fellow, I'm afraid 
Madame isn't all that she should be , . . d'you clasp 

7 



ANATOL 



his hand gratefully and tell him he's quite right? 
No . . . you knock him down. 

MAX. Yes . . . the principal task of friendship is to 
foster one's friend's illusions. 

ANATOL hears something. 

ANATOL. Tsch! 

MAX. What? 

ANATOL. How well I kuow the sound of her! 
MAX. I don't . . . 

ANATOL. In the hall. Here she is. Well . . . 
Hilda? Co¥ix 

He opens the door to -find her coming in, A 
personable young woman, 
^^i^A. Dearest ! Oh . . . somebody with you. 
ANATOL. Only Max. 
HILDA. How are you? All in the dark! 
ANATOL. I like the gloaming. 
HILDA. Romantic darling. 
ANATOL. Dearest. 

HILDA. But don't let's have any more of it. You 
don't mind, do you? 

She turns up the lights and then takes off her 
hat and things, and makes herself quite at 
home, 

ANATOL [^under his breath^. Isn't she . . .? (praise 
fails him), 

MAX {with a shade of irony']. She is ! 
HILDA. Had a nice long talk? 
ANATOL. Half-an-hour. 
HILDA. What about? 
ANATOL. All sorts of thiugs. 

8 



ASK NO QUESTIONS 
MAX. Hypnotism. 

HILDA. You're all going mad about that. 
ANATOL. Yes . . . 

HILDA. Anatol, why don't you hypnotise me 
some time? 

ANATOL is staggered at the sudden opportunity. 
ANATOL. D'you mean it? 

HILDA. Rather! Awfully jolly if you'd do it, 
darling. 

ANATOL. Much obliged. 

HILDA. Not any strange person messing about of 
course. 

ANATOL. Very well . . . I'll hypnotise you. 
HILDA. When? 

ANATOL. Now. 

HILDA. Will you ? Oh, how nice ! What do I do ? 
ANATOL. Sit in that chair and go to sleep. 
HILDA. That all? 

He settles her on a chair, and, taking another, 
settles himself opposite, max is discreet in 
the hacJiground, 
ANATOL. You must look at me . . . straight at me. 
And then I stroke your forehead . . . and then over 
your eyes . . . like this. 
HILDA. What else? 
ANATOL. Let yourself go. 

She sits limply with her eyes shut. 
HILDA. When you stroke me like that ... it makes 
me feel funny all over. 

ANATOL. Don't talk ... go to sleep. You are 
rather sleepy. 

9 



ANATOL 



HILDA. No, Fm not. 
ANATOii. Just a little. 

HILDA [m tune with hirri]. Yes . . . just a little. 
ANATOL. Oh . . . it's so hard to keep awake. Don't 
try. Why . . . you can't lift up your hand. 
HILDA {tonelessly^. No ... I can't. 

ANATOL makes wider passes, and his voice is won- 
derfully soothing. 
ANATOL. You are so sleepy ... so sleepy ... so very 
sleepy. Well, then . . . sleep, dear child, sleep ... 
sleep. You can't open your eyes now. 

It seems as if she made the most helpless effort. 
ANATOL. You can't . . . because you're asleep. Keep 
sleeping . . . 

MAX [really excited^ . Is she . . . ? 
ANATOL. S-sh! [Then as before.^ Sleeping... 
sleeping . . . fast asleep. 

He stands silently for a minute looking down at 
HILDA as she sleeps. Then he turns to max 
and says in his ordinary tones . . . 
ANATOL. All right now. 
MAX. Is she really asleep? 

ANATOL. Look at her. Let her be for a minute. 
For a minute they both watch her. Then anatol 
speaks again. 
ANATOL. Hilda, answer me when I ask you. What's 
your name? 

Her mouth opens and the word is slowly formed. 
HILDA. Hilda. 

ANATOL. Hilda . . . we're walking along a road . . . 
out in the country, 

10 



ASK NO QUESTIONS 



HILDA. Yes . . . isn't it pretty? That's a tall tree. 
There's a bird singing . . . 

AXATOL. Hilda . . . you're going to tell me the truth. 
Do you understand? 

HILDA \_slozi:ly again~\, I am going to tell you the 
truth. 

AXATOL. Answer m.e all I ask you quite truthfully 
. . . but when you wake up you will have forgotten. 
Do you understand? 

HILDA. Yes. 

AXATOL. Then sleep . . . soundly. 

Then he turns to max and they look at each other 
triumphantly, hut hesitant. 
ANATOL. How shall we begin? 
MAX \_after a moment~\. How old is she? 
AXATOL. She's nineteen. Hilda . . .how old are you? 
HILDA. Twenty-five. 

MAX. Oh! [and he dissolves into silent guffaws'], 

AXATOL. Tsch! That's odd. But . . . [he hrightens'\ 
but there you are. 

MAX. She never thought she'd be such a success. 

AXATOL. Well . . . one more martyr to science. 
Let's try again. Hilda, do you love me? Hilda 
dear ... do you love me? 

HILDA. Yes. 

AXATOL. There . . . that's the truth. 
MAX. And now for the all-important question . . . 
is she true to you? 

AXATOL strikes the correct attitude for this, 
AXATOL. Yes. Hilda, are you . . . ? \_but he 
frowns,'] No . . . that won't do. 

11 



ANATOL 



MAX. Why not? 

ANATOii. I can't put it that way. 
MAX. It's a simple question. 

ANATOL. Not at all. Are you true to me ! It may 
mean anything. 
MAX. How.'^ 

ANATOL. She might look back over her whole life. 
You don't suppose she never fell in love till she met 
me, do you.'^ 

MAX. Well ... I should like to hear about it. 

ANATOL. Would you, indeed! Prying into school- 
girl secrets ! How was the poor child to know that 
one day she'd meet me? 

MAX. Of course she didn't. 

ANATOL. Very well, then. 

MAX. So why shouldn't she tell us? 

ANATOL. I don't like putting it that way, and I 
shan't. 

MAX. What about . . . Hilda, since you've known 
me have you been true to me? 

ANATOL. Ah, that's different. \_He faces the sleeper 
again.^ Hilda... since you've known me have 
you been . . . [but again he frowns and stops~\. And 
it's rather worse, 

MAX. Worse? 

ANATOL. Think how all love affairs begin. We 
met quite casually. How could we tell we should 
one day be all in all to each other? 

MAX. Of course you couldn't. 

ANATOL. Very well, then. Suppose when she first 

12 



ASK NO QUESTIONS 



knew me she had some idle fancy still to shake free 
of . . . am I to blame her for that ? 

MAX. You make better excuses than ever she 
could. 

AXATOL. Is it fair to take such an advantage of 
the girl? 

MAX \_zcith a ttiisty smile']. You're a good fellow, 
Anatol. Try this. Hilda . . . since you've loved me, 
have you been true to me ? 

AXATOL. Yes . . . that's better. 
MAX. Right. 

Once more axatol fixes his love with a gesture. 
But he suddenly drops it, 
anatol. No, it won't do . . . it won't do. 
MAX. Well, really! 

AXATOL. Think a minute. She's sitting in a 
train. A man opposite . . . good-looking fellow . . . 
slides his foot against hers. She looks up. 

MAX. Well? 

AXATOL. Think of the extraordinary 
subtlety of mind that has been engendered in her 
by this hypnotic trance. In her present un- 
conscious state the remembrance of looking up 
not displeased might well be recalled as an act of 
infidelity. 

MAX. Oh, come ! 

AXATOL. That's perfectly sound. And the more so 
because she already knows my views on such a point 
. . . which are a little exaggerated. I've often warned 
her not to go looking at men. 

MAX. What has she said to that? 

13 



ANATOL 



ANATOii. Oh . . . asked me to imagine her doing 
such a thing! 

MAX. Which you were imagining quite well ten 
minutes ago. 

ANATOL. Suppose she was kissed under the mistle- 
toe last Christmas . . . 
MAX. No . . . really ! 
ANATOL. She may have been. 

MAX. All this means is, that you won't ask her the 
question. 

ANATOL. Not at all. I will ask her the question. 
But . . . 

MAX. Anatol, it won't do. Ask a woman if she's 
true to you and she doesn't think of men tread- 
ing on her foot or kissing her under the mistletoe. 
Besides, if the answer's not clear, we can make her 
go into details. 

ANATOL. I see. You've made up your mind I shall 
ask her, have you.^^ 

MAX. Dash it, no ! It's you want to find things 
out . . . not I. 

ANATOL. Yes. There's another thing to think of. 

MAX. What now.? 

ANATOL. What about her sub-responsible self .'^ 
MAX. What the devil's that? 

ANATOL. Under the stimulus of certain extraor- 
dinary circumstances, I quite beHeve that one is 
not a fully independent agent. 

MAX. Would you put that into Enghsh? 

ANATOL. Well . . . imagine some room . . . softly 

14 



ASK NO QUESTIONS 



curtained . . . dimly lit . • . glowing with warmth and 
colour. 

MAX. Right . . . I've imagined it. 
ANATOL. There she sits . . . she and some other 
man. 

MAX. But what's she doing there at all? 

ANATOL. That's not the point for the moment. 
She i s there, we'll suppose. Supper ... a glass of 
wine . . . cigarettes . . . silence. And then a whis- 
pered word or two . . . ! Oh, my dear Max, colder 
women than she haven't stood prim against such 
temptation. 

MAX. I should say that if you're in love with 
some one, you've no business to find yourself in a 
room like that with somebody else. 

ANATOL. But I know how things will happen. 

MAX. Anatol, it won't do. Here's your riddle 
with its answer ready. It's to be solved with a word. 
One question to find out if she's yours alone. One 
more to find out who shares her with you . . . and 
how big is the share. You won't ask them. You 
suffer agonies. What wouldn't you give to know 
. . . just to be sure. Well, here's the book open . . . 
and you won't even turn the page. Why? Because 
you might find written there that a woman you're in 
love with is no better than you swear all women are. 
You don't want the truth . . . you want to keep your 
illusions. Wake her up . . . and to-morrow be content 
with the glorious thought that you could have found 
out . . . only you wouldn't. 

ANATOL. I . . . I . . . 

15 



ANATOL 



MAX. You've been talking nonsense. It hasn't 
taken me in if it has you. 
ANATOL. I w i 1 1 ask her. 
MAX. Will jou? 

ANATOL. Yes . . . but not in front of you. 

MAX. Why not? 

ANATOL. If Fm to know the worst, I'll hear it 
privately. Being hurt is only half as bad as being 
pitied for it. I don't want your kind face to be 
telling me just how hard the knock is. You'll know 
just the same, because if she's ... if she has been . . . 
then we've seen the last of her. But you won't be 
there at the awful moment. D'you mind.^^ 
MAX. Shall I wait in your bedroom .^^ 
ANATOL. Yes. It won't take a moment. 

So MAX retires, and anatol faces the sleeping 
girl, who is half smiling i/ri her sleep. He 
braces himself for the effort, then speaks 
sternly, judicially. 
anatol. Hilda ... do you . . . ? 

He fails, then makes a further effort. 
ANATOL. Hilda . . . are you . . . ? 

He fails again and turns distractedly away. 
Then for the third time , . . 
ANATOL. Hilda . . . have you . , . ? 

He begins to sweat with the emotion of it. 
ANATOL. Oh, Lord ! Hilda . . . Hilda . . . 

And then, with one qualm as to whether max can 
overhear, he throws conscience to the winds, 
and himself on his knees beside the pretty 
girl. 



ASK NO QUESTIONS 



ANATOX.. Oh . . . wake up, my darling, and give me 
a kiss. 

With a couple of waves Tie can release her, and 
up she sits quite brightly, 
HILDA. Have I been like that long? Where's 
Max? 

ANATOL. Max! 

Out of the bedroom comes max, mischievously 
watchful. 
MAX. Here. 

anatol. Yes ... a sound sleep. You've been 
saying things. 

HILDA. Anything I shouldn't? 

MAX. He's been asking you questions. 

HILDA. What sort? 

ANATOL. All sorts. 

HILDA. And I answered them? 

ANATOL [with a look at max]. Every one. 

HILDA. Oh, tell me . . . ! 

ANATOL. Aha ! . . . we'll try again to-morrow. 

HILDA. No, we won't. You asking me what you 
like . . . and now I can't remember any of it. I may 
have said the most awful things. 

ANATOL. You said you loved me. 

HILDA. Did I? 

MAX. Who'd have thought it ! 

HILDA. I can say that better when I'm awake. 

ANATOL. Sweetheart! 

MAX. Good afternoon! 

ANATOL. Going? 

17 



ANATOL 

MAX. I must. 

ANATOL. You can find your way out? 
HILDA. Ta-ta. 

MAX beckons to anatol, who follows him to the 
door. 

max. Perhaps you've made a scientific discovery 
besides. That women tell lies just as well when 
they're asleep. But so long as you're happy . . . 
what's the odds.? 

He departs, leaving the couple locked in a fond 
embrace. 



18 



II 

CHRISTMAS PRESENT 



A CHRISTMAS PRESENT 



It is Christmas Eve, about five o^clock. In a bye- 
street, that links up two others busy with shops, a 
builder^ s scaffold has formed a little arcade. Be- 
neath this, and just beside a big arc lamp that 
sheds its whiteness down, anatol, hurrying along 
with umbrella up, meets gabrielle. 

ANATOL \^stopping^. Oh! How do you do? 
GABRiELLE. Why, it's you ! 

ANATOL. What are you doing? All those parcels 
. . . and no umbrella ! 

GABRIEI.I.E. I'm trying to find a cab. 
ANATOL. But it's raining. 

GABRIELI.E. That's the reason. I've been buying 
presents. 

ANATOL. Let me carry some of them , . . please. 
GABRiELLE. It doesu't matter. 

ANATOL. I insist. [^He captures one.l But hadn't 
you better wait here in shelter? We shall find a 
cab just as quickly. 

GABRiELirE. You reaUy mustn't trouble. 

ANATOL. Let me be a little attentive for once in a 
way. 

GABRiELLE, I'll Wait here a minute to see if one 

21 



ANATOL 



passes. Or I'll be grateful for the umbrella. \_He 
tries for another parcel.^ No, I can manage that, 
thanks. It's not at all heavy. [But she surrenders 
it.^ Oh, very well then ! 

ANATOL. Won't you believe that I like being 
polite ? 

GABRiELLE. As One ouly notices it when it's rain- 
ing, and I haven't an umbrella . . . 

ANATOL. And it's Christmas Eve, and dark too . . . ! 
Warm weather for Christmas, isn't it? 

GABRiELLE. Very. [They take their stand looking 
out for a cab to pass.^ Marvellous to see you at all. 

ANATOL. I've not been to call once this year . . . 
is that what you mean.^ 

GABRiELLE l^with much indifference'] . Oh, haven't 
you.? 

ANATOL. The fact is I've not been anywhere 
much. How is your husband . . . and how are the 
dear children? 

GABRIELLE. Why ask that? You don't in the 
least want to know. 

ANATOL. You read me like a book. 

GABRIELLE. It's such vcry large print. 

ANATOL. I wish you knew more of it . . . by heart. 

GABRIELLE [with a toss of her head]. Don't say 
things like that. 

ANATOL. They just spring from me. 

GABRIELLE. Givc me my parcels. I'll walk on. 

ANATOL. Oh, don't be angry . . . I'll be as prim and 
proper as you please. 

GABRIELLE. There's a cab. No, it's full. Oh, dear, 

22 



A CHRISTMAS PRESENT 



shall I have to wait long? \_He is standing mum,'\ 
Do say something. 

AXATOL. I'm longing to . . . but the censorship is 
so strict. 

GABRiELLE. You Can tcll me your news, can't you? 
It's ages since we met. What are you doing now? 
AXATOL. As usual . . . nothing. 
GABRiELLE. Nothing? 
AXATOL. Rather less than nothing. 
GABEIELI.E. Isu't that a pity? 

ANATOL. Why say that . . . when you don't in the 

least care? 

GABRiELLE. You shouldu't take that for granted. 

AXATOL. If I'm wasting my life, whose fault is it? 
Whose, would you mind telling me ? 

GABBiELLE. I'd better go on. Give me my 
parcels. 

ANATOL \_mischiev(msly'], I didn't imply it was any 
one's fault in particular. I just wanted your valua- 
ble opinion. 

GABEiE-LLE \_with a touch of feeling']. You idler! 

AXATOL. Don't despise idlers. They're the last 
word in civilisation. But I'm not idling to-night. 
I'm as busy as you are. 

GABRiELLE. What with ? 

AXATOL. I'm out to buy Christmas presents, too. 
GABBiELLE. Are you? 

AX'ATOL. If I could find anything worth buying. 
I've been looking at the shops for weeks. They 
haven't a notion amongst 'em, 

GABRiELLE. That's what the good customer has to 

23 



ANATOL 



supply. But, bless me! an idle person like you 
ought to be thinking out his presents all the 
summer. 

ANATOL. How could I? How cau I tell in the 

summer whom I may be making up to at Christmas? 
And the shops will be shut in an hour or two, and 
I'm still empty-handed ! 

GABRIELLE. Could I help.'* 

ANATOL. Oh, you are a darling! What's my best 
shop ? 

GABRiELLE. Well, you must know that. We'll take 
the cab there when we find it. 

ANATOL. Thank you for passing the Darling . . . 
it's my favourite word. 

GABRIELLE. I ignored it. 

ANATOL. Very well . . . I'm prim and proper again. 

GABRIELLE. Where shall we go when the cab comes 
What sort of a present? Who's it for? 

ANATOL. Now . . . how shall I tell you? 

GABRIELLE. It's for a womau, of course. 

ANATOL. Didn't I say you could read me like a 
book? 

GABRIELLE. What sort of a woman? 
ANATOL. There, again! How do you women sort 
yourselves out? 

GABRIELLE. Is it a womau I know? 
ANATOL. Not at all. 

GABRIELLE. Not ... a woman I should call on? 
ANATOL. Never. 

GABRIELLE. No ... I thought as much. 
ANATOL. Don't sneer. 

24i 



A christ:\ias present 



GABEiELLE. You have extraordinary tastes. 
What's she like. . . pretty-pretty? 
ANATOL. Pretty. 

GABRiELLE. A man is a marv^ellous creature. Good 
breeding, good manners, are nothing to you ! 

AXATOL. Oh, a great deal . . . when they'll conde- 
scend to us. But if they won't . . . 

GABRiELLE. Dou't be siUy again. No, you prefer 
a cheap and easy conquest! 

ANATOL. I go where I'm appreciated. 

GABRiELLE. Can she read you like a book? 

ANATOi.. God forbid. But she admires the 
binding, and takes the rest on trust. While 
you despise the contents ... as if you really knew 
them! 

GABRiELLE. I really don't know what you mean. I 
can tell you of an excellent shop; I passed it just 
now. Cases of scent in the window. One with three 
sorts . . . Patchouli, Jockey Club, Cherry Blossom. 
I'm sure that's the very thing. 

ANATOL. You're unkind. 

GABRiELLE. Well, there was another shop next door 
• . . with brooches and suchlike. One with six Parisian 
diamonds in it . . . s i x. Oh, so sparkling ! Or a 
bracelet with charms hung round; or a long bead 
necklace . . . quite savage ! That's the sort of thing 
these ladies like, isn't it? 

ANATOL. I'm afraid you know nothing about 
them. 

GABRIELLE. Or I Can tell you of a hat shop with a 
style of its own. Their bows are too large, and they 

25 



ANATOL 



put In a feather too many. These persons like to be 
conspicuous, don't they ? 
ANATOL. Not at all. 

GABRiELLE. It's hard to be helpful. Make a sug- 
gestion yourself. 

ANATOL. You're waiting to laugh at it. 

GABRiELLE. I promise I won't. Let me know what 
she likes. Is she demure in sealskins.'^ 

ANATOL. I said you'd laugh. 

GABRiELLE. I'm uot laughiug. Tell me about her. 
ANATOL. I don't think I can. 

GABRiELLE. Of course you can. How long have 
you known her? 
ANATOL. Oh , . . 
GABRIELLE. Well? 

ANATOL. Ever so long. 

GABRIELLE. Dou't be SO difBcult. Tell me all 
about it. 

ANATOL. There's nothing to tell. 

GABRIELLE. What uouseuse ! Where did you meet 
her and what's she like? What's her name and her 
age? Is she tall or short and dark or fair? 

ANATOL. It'll only bore you. 

GABRIELLE. No it wou't. I've always wanted to 
know about that sort of person . . . what they're 
really like. 

ANATOL. You'll never know. 

GABRIELLE. Why UOt? 

ANATOL. As long as you fully believe that women 
you can't call on don't really exist at all. 

26 



A CHRISTMAS PRESENT 



GABRiELLE. But I Want to learn better. And if 
no one dares tell me the truth . . . 

ANATOii l^with a sudden break of tonel^. Haven't 
you very virtuous ladies a feeling that this other 
sort of woman . . . somehow gets the better of you 
after all? 

GABRiELLE. That's a delicate insult. 

ANATOL. You wouldn't change places, of course, 
but . . . how dare she be so improperly happy? 

GABRiELLE. Is it the Only way then? 

ANATOL. That's feminine fellow-feeling, I'm told 
, . . and therefore all that's charming and charitable. 

GABRiELLE. You've Icamt to be very sarcastic since 
we last met. 

ANATOL [^seriously, almost passionatelyl. Shall I 
tell you how? Once I used to believe that a good 
woman so-called was an honest woman. I've taken a 
few knock-down blows with my teeth shut . , . 

GABRiELLE. Plcase dou't be heroic... that's 
far worse ! 

ANATOi.. Straight blows. I can take a No when 
it's honestly meant and said without flinching. But 
when the eyes say Perhaps and the smile says Wait 
a little, and what the No means is Yes Yes Yes . . . 
if only I dared ! Then . . . 

GABRIELLE [biting her lips^. I think I won't wait 
for this cab to come by . . . 

ANATOL. Then you've your choice between feeling 
a fool and becoming a cynic, 

GABRIELLE. . . . Unless you mean to go on telling 
me about . • . about your new friend. 

87 



ANATOL 



ANATOii [back to his bantering humour']. You 
simply must know, must you? 

GABRiELLE. Certainly I must. How did you first 
meet ? 

ANATOL. How does one meet people? In the 
streets, at the seaside, in an omnibus, sharing an 
umbrella ! 

GABRiELLE. Never mind how one meets people. 
How did you meet her . . . the Her we're finding a 
Christmas present for? Fm sure she's like nobody else. 

ANATOL. She's just as like every other girl of her 
sort as you are like every other woman of yours. 

GABRiELLE [for the first time really annoyed]. 
Am I indeed! 

ANATOL. Oh, don't be offended. Or as I'm like 
every other man of mine. Are there a dozen different 
patterns of any of us altogether? 

GABRIELLE. What's yours? 

ANATOL. I, madam, am a Toy Philosopher. 

GABRIELLE. And mine? 

ANATOL. You are a Married Lady. 

GABRIELLE. And what's she? 

ANATOL. She? She is just a Dear Little Girl. 

GABRIELLE. Then let's hear all about your Dear 
Little Girl. 

ANATOL. It's not that she's so pretty, or so smart 
. . . and certainly not that she's so clever. 

GABRIELLE. Never mind what she's not. 

ANATOL. She's as sweet as a wild flower, and as 
elusive as a fairy tale . . . and she knows what love 
means. 

28 



A CHRISTMAS PRESENT 



GABRiELLE. No doubt. These Dear Little Girls 
have every chance to learn. 

ANATOL. Quite so, but you'll never learn what she's 
really like. For when you were a dear little girl . . . 
of another sort . . . you knew nothing at all. And 
now you're a married lady you think you're so 
worldly wise. 

GABRiELLE. Not at all. I'm quite open-mouthed 
for your fairy tale. What sort of a castle does the 
princess live in? 

ANATOi.. Can you imagine a fairy princess in any- 
thing but the smartest of drawing-rooms.'^ 

GABRIEI.I.E [a little tartly]^ . Thank you, I can. 

ANATOL. Because this one lives in a little room . . . 
with a cheap and nasty wall-paper. With a few 
Christmas numbers hanging about and a white 
shaded lamp on her table. You can see the sun set 
from the window over the roofs and through the 
chimneys. And in the spring you can almost smell 
the flowers in a garden across the way. 

GABRiELLE. It must be a sign of great happiness 
. . . looking forward to the spring. 

ANATOL. Yes, even I feel happy now and then . . . 
sitting with her at that window. 

gabrieXtLe gives a little shiver; it*s the coldj 
no doubt. Then . . . 
GABRiELLE. It is getting late. Shall we walk oi\? 
You must buy her something. Something to hang 
on the nasty wall-paper and hide it a little. 
ANATOL,. She thinks it so pretty. 

29 



ANATOL 

GABRiELLE. Why don't you refurnish the room to 
your taste? 

ANATOL. Why should I? 

GABRiELLE. With a Persian carpet, and . . . 

ANATOL. No, no, no . . . She knows what she 
likes. 

There falls a little silence. But no cab passes. 
GABRiELrLE. Is she Waiting for you now.'^ 
ANATOL. Sure to be. 

GABRiELLE. What wiU she say when you come.'^ 
ANATOL. Oh . . . the right thing. 
GABRIELLE. She kuows youT step on the stairs, 
doesn't she? 

ANATOL. I expect so. 

GABRIELLE. And goes to the door? 

ANATOL. Yes. 

GABRIELLE. And puts her arms round your neck, 
and says . . . What does she say? 

ANATOL. The right thing. 

GABRIELLE. What's that? 

ANATOL. It's just . . . the right thing to say. 

GABRIELLE. What was it yesterday? 

ANATOL. It sounds nothing repeated. I suppose 
it's the way that she says it. 

GABRIELLE. I'll imagine that. Tell me the words. 

ANATOL. It is good to havc you back again. 

GABRIELLE. It is good . . . what ? 

ANATOL. To have you back again. 

GABRIELLE. That's very beautiful. 

ANATOL. You see . . . she means it. 

30 



A CHRISTIVIAS PRESENT 



GABRiELLE. And she lives there alone? You can 
always be with her? 

ANATOL. She's quite alone. She has no father or 
mother. 

GABRiELLE. And jou . . . are all the world to 
her? 

AXATOL \^the cynic in him shrugs his shoulders^, 
I hope so. For the moment. 

There is another silence. 

GABRIEI.LE. I'm afraid I'm getting cold standing 
stiU . . . and all the cabs seem to be full. 

ANATOL. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have kept you. 
Let me see you home. 

GABRiELLE. Yes . . . they'll all be fidgeting. But 
what about 3^ our present? 

ANATOL. Never mind, I shall find something. 

GABRiELLE. Will y ou ? But I wanted to help you 
buy it. 

ANATOL. No, no, 3^ou mustn't trouble. 

GABRiELLE. I wish I could be there when jom give 
it her. I wish I could see that little room and that 
. . . lucky little girl. There's a cab empty. Call it, 
please. 

ANATOL waves to the cab. 
ANATOL. Taxi ! 

GABRIEI.1.E. Thank you. \^As the cab turns and she 
moves towards it , . . ] May I send her something? 
ANATOL. You? 

GABRiELLE. Take her these flowers. Will you give 
her a message as well? 

ANATOL. It's really most awfully good of you. 

31 



ANATOL 



GABRIELLE. But jou w i 1 1 take them to her, and 
promise to give her the message? 
ANATOL. Certainly. 
GABRiELLE. Promise. 

ANATOL. [by this he has opened the cab door']. I 
promise. Why shouldn't I? 

GABRIELLE. This is it . . . 
ANATOL. Yes? 

GABRIELLE. These flowers, dear little girl, are 
from . . . some one who might have been as happy 
as you ... if she hadn't been quite such a coward ! 
[She gets in without his help,] Tell him where to 
drive. 

He does sOy and then goes his way too. 



32 



Ill 

AN EPISODE 



AN EPISODE 



MAx's rooms are comfortable, if commonplace. The 
writing table lie is sitting at is clumsy, but ifs 
within reach of a cheerful fire. By the lamp on 
it he is reading a letter. 

MAX. We're back again for three months . . . 
you'll have seen it in the papers. Old friends first . . . 
I'm coming along . . . Your affectionate Bibi. Nice 
little Bianca ! I shall certainly stay in. 

There's a kjiock at the door. 
MAX. Already ! Xo, this can't be . . . Come in. 
In walks anatol, carrying an enormous parcel. 
He looks most gloomy. 
anatol. How are you? 
MAX. What on earth have you got there? 
ANATOi.. This is my past. 
MAX. Your w h a t ? 

ANATOL deposits the parcel on the table. 
ANATOL. I have brought you my dead and buried 
past. I want you to take care of it for me. 
MAX. Why? 

ANATOL {with great solemnityl. May I sit down? 
MAX {as solemn as he']. You may. 

ANATOL takes off his hat and coat and settles 
himself in the most comfortable chair. 
85 



ANATOL 



ANATOL. May I smoke? 
MAX. Try one of these. 

ANATOL lights a cigar and unbends a trifle. 
ANATOL. I rather like these. 
MAX l^pointing to the parceV\, Well.'^ 
ANATOL. I really cannot live with my past any 
longer. I'm going for a holiday. 
MAX. Ah! 

ANATOL. I wish to begin a new life . . . even if I 
don't go on with it. And this is naturally very 
much in the way. 

MAX. In love again? 

ANATOL. Out of love this time. So you might 
look after this rubbish for me. 

MAX. Better bum it if it's rubbish. 
ANATOL. I can't do that. 
MAX. Why not? 

ANATOL. This is how I'm true to them ... to all the 
women I've ever loved ... I never forget a single one. 
I have only to turn over these letters, and dead flowers, 
and locks of hair . . . You'U have to let me come 
here and turn them over occasionally . . . and back 
they come to me . . . I'm in love with them all 
again. 

MAX. This is to be a sort of Usual place at 
half-past three and don't be late ... is it? 

ANATOL. I've often wished there really were some 
Abracadabra which would call them back out of the 
utter nothingness. 

MAX. But a variegated sort of nothingness. 

ANATOL. If I knew of a word . . . 

36 



AN EPISODE 



MAX. Let's think of one. What about . . . My 
Only Love. 

ANATOL. Yes . . . My Only Love ! And then 
they'd all come. One from a little suburban villa 
. . . one from her crowded drawing-room . . . one 
from her dressing-room at the theatre . . . 

MAX. Several from their dressing-rooms at the 
theatre. 

ANATOL. Several. One from a shop . . . 

MAX. One from the arms of your successor! 

ANATOL. One from the grave. One from here . . . 
one from there. Here they all are ! 

MAX. Would you mind not speaking the word? 
I somehow don't think they'd be pleasant company. 
I dare say they're not in love with you still . . . 
but I'm pretty sure they're still jealous of each 
other. 

ANATOii. Wise man! Let the phantoms rest. 

MAX. And where am I to put this mausoleum.? 

ANATOL. I'd better undo it. 

He undoes it. The parcel is made up of a dozen 
or so other little parcels^ neatly tied up and 
ticketed, max gazes with delight. 

MAX. Hullo! 

ANATOL. Yes . . . I'm a methodical man, 

max. Is it done alphabetically .^^ 

ANATOL. N05 there's a label for each . . , like the 
motto in a cracker. A verse or a phrase will recall 
the whole affair to me. No names! Susan and Jane 
suggest nothing. 

MAX. May I look? 

37 



ANATOL 



ANATOL. I wonder if I can still fix them all. I 
can't have looked at some of them for years. 

ANATOL leans hack in his chair, smoking, max 
settles himself enjoyahly to the Past. He 
takes up the "first packet and reads the motto. 
MAX. ' I loved her. When she left me I thought 
I should have killed her ; 
My kisses on your neck remain, and nothing 
else, Matilda.' 
But that's a name . . . what a name ! Matilda ! 

ANATOi.. It wasn't her real name, but I'd written 
' killed her,' and there aren't many rhymes to that. 
I always did kiss her on the neck, though. 
MAX. Who was she? 

ANATOL. It doesn't matter. I held her in my arms 
once. That's all there is to her. 

MAX \^as he puts the packet astde^. Stand down, 
Matilda. She does up small, anyhow. 

ANATOL. One lock of hair. 

MAX. No letters? 

ANATOL. Letters from Matilda! That would 
have inked her fingers. Don't you sometimes wish 
women weren't taught to write? Exit Matilda, 
MAX reads another label. 

MAX. ' Women are alike in one thing . . . they turn 
impudent if you catch them out in a lie.' 

ANATOL. They do. 

MAX, Who was it? She's very heavy. 
ANATOL. Lies eight pages long. Oh . . . put it 
away. 

MAX. Was she so very impudent? 



AN EPISODE 



ANATOL. When I found her out. Throw her 
away. 

MAX. Impudent little liar ! 

ANATOL. No . . . you Hiustu't iusult her. I have 
held her in my arms. She is sacred. 

MAX. How stupid of me! Who's next? J[A third 
packet,^ 

' When sad, my child, and sick of earth. 

My thoughts to your Young Man fly far, 
And then I laugh for all I'm worth ; 

Oh, dear, how funny some things are ! ' 
ANATOL,. So they were! 
MAX. What's inside.?* 

ANATOL. A photograph. She and the Young 
Man. 

MAX. Did you know him, too? 

ANATOL. That's what was so funny. He really 
was quite an exceptional fool. 

MAX. Hush ! She has held him in her arms ... he 
is sacred. 

ANATOL. You shut Up. 

MAX. stand down, my child, with your exception- 
ally foolish and mirth-provoking young man. \With 
a fourth package,'] What's this? 

ANATOL. What? 

MAX. ' A box on the ears.' 

ANATOL. Oh . . . ! Oh, yes . . . yes . . . yes ! 

MAX. Was that how it ended? 

ANATOL. No, how it began. 

MAX. Ah! -fifth label.'] ^ How hard it is to 

39 



ANATOL 



grow a flower, but it's so easy to pick it.' What 
does that mean? 

ANATOL. Some other fellow grew the flower ... I 
came along and picked it. 

MAX. Oh! sixth label,^ 'She always carried 
her curling tongs. ^ 

ANATOL. Do you know she alw s did. Then 
it didn't matter what happened. I ^ell you . . . she 
was damn pretty. There's a bit of her veil left, isn't 
there .'^ 

MAX. It feels like that. seventh label.'] ' How 
did I lose you.^ ' How did you lose her.? 

ANATOL. That's the point ... I never knew. One 
fine day she just wasn't. Don't you know how you 
leave your umbrella somewhere . . . don't think of it 
till days later ... no idea where you put it down. 

MAX. Fare thee well, my lost umbrella! [^An 
eighth label,] What's this one.? ' Sweet and dear 
you were to me . . .' 

ANATOii [^catching him up], ' Girl with roughened 
finger tips. Past all . . .' 

MAX. Oh . . . that was Hilda. 

ANATOL. You remember Hilda. 

MAX. What became of her.? 

ANATOL. She married a milkman. 

MAX. Did she now? 

ANATOL. That's what happens. I love a girl . . . 
I'm all the world to her . , . and then she marries a 
milkman. A dear child. I hope it's been good for 
trade. 

MAX [^as he puts hilda aside], Milko! [Then the 

40 



AN EPISODE 



ninth package. ~\ And what's 'Episode'? Nothing 
inside but a Httle dust. 

ANATOii leans across and takes the little envelope 
from him, 

ANATOL. Dust! It was once a rosebud. 

MAX. What does 'Episode' mean.'^ 

ANATOi.. That's what it was ... an episode ... a 
couple of hours' romance. Pathetic, isn't it.'^ Noth- 
ing left of its sweetness but dust ! 

MAX. Most pathetic. But one might call them all 
a little episodic. 

ANATOL. Not with such dreadful truth. Of 
course, they all were . . . and I knew they were at 
the time. I had a fine idea of myself in those days. 
I used to catch myself thinking . . . Poor child, 
poor child! 

MAX. Poor . . . ? 

ANATOL. When I was very young indeed I saw 
myself as one of the world's great heroes of romance. 
These women, I thought ... I pluck them, crush the 
sweetness from them . . . it's the law of nature . . . 
then I throw them aside as I pass on. I know now 
that I'm more of a fool than a hero . . . and I'm get- 
ting most unpleasantly used to knowing it. 

MAX. What was ' Episode ' ? 

ANATOL. I caught her . . . then I threw her aside 
. . . crushed her under my heel. 
MAX. Did you really .^^ 

ANATOL. But I tell you . . . they were the few 
most wonderful moments I ever passed. Not that 
you'd ever understand. 

41 



ANATOL 



MAX. Why not? 

ANATOL. Because it sounds nothing at all . • • 
unless you can feel it as I felt it. 
MAX. I'll try. 

ANATOL. I sat at the piano in that room of mine 
one evening. We'd been in love with each other 
just two hours. D'you remember a lamp I had and 
the curious glowing light it gave. Think of that 
lamp . . . it's most important. 

MAX. I've thought of it. 

ANATOL. I sat at the piano. She sat at my 
feet . . . I remember I couldn't reach the pedals. 
Her head in my lap . . . her hair loose . . . and the 
glowing light making such shadows in it! I let one 
hand wander on the keys . . . the other was pressed 
against her lips. 

MAX. What else ? 

ANATOL. Isn't that like you? Nothing else! 
We'd loved each other for only an hour or two. 
It was our first solitude ... it was to be our last. She 
said it would be. But I knew that she loved me 
madly . . . the very air was shimmering with it. 
Would you have noticed that.^^ Do you wonder I felt 
a demi-god and only thought . . . Oh, you poor, poor 
child! What was it to me? An episode. I should 
hardly cease to feel her kisses on my hand before 
she'd begin to slip into the shadows of memory. 
But she'd never forget . . . never be able to forget. 
Some women can . . . but not she. She lay there at 
my feet pouring out her soul in love. I knew that 
I was the whole world to her . . . and always would 

4^ 



AN EPISODE 



be . . . one is so certain of these things sometimes. 
While to me . . . she and her love were just an 
episode. 

MAX. Who was the lady? 

ANATOL. You knew her ... we met her at supper 
once. 

MAX. Did we? Sounds too romantic a person for 
any supper I ever went to. 

ANATOL. Not a bit. You'll laugh when I tell 
you. She belonged to a . . . 

MAX. Theatre? 

ANATOL. No ... a circus. 

MAX. Not Bianca? 

ANATOL. Yes . . . Bianca. I never told you I met 
her again after that night. 

MAX. D'you mean to say that Bibi was in love 
with you? 

ANATOL. She was. I met her in the street ... it 
seems they went off to Russia the next morning. 

MAX. And a good job for your romance they did. 

ANATOL. Of course! Because it's somebody you 
knew the whole thing becomes commonplace. Oh, 
Max . . . why don't you learn how to be in love? 

MAX. Teach me. 

ANATOL. Learn to tune yourself up to the supreme 
moments. 

MAX. With a little piano-playing and a glowing 
light upon her shimmering hair? 

ANATOL. Well . . . that's how I get wonders out of 
life. You saw no more in that girl than you could 
in that lamp of mine. A bit of glass, wasn't it . . . 

43 



ANATOL 



with a light behind? What a way to walk through 
the world . . . eyes open and imagination shut ! Do 
you wonder you find nothing in it? You swallow 
life whole. Max ... I taste it. 

MAX. You've only to fall in love to make the 
universe all you want it to be ! 

ANATOL. That's how it's done 

MAX. How many glowing lamps would it take to 
work Bianca up to that pitch? 

ANATOL. I know what she felt when I kissed her. 
MAX. I know better. 

ANATOL. Do 3^0U? 

MAX. Because I've never kissed her . . . and never 
needed to imagine her anything but the pretty, harm- 
less, worthless little baggage she is. 

ANATOL. Oh! 

MAX. Whatever else you want to find in her you 
must put there first. 

ANATOL. It wasn't so then ... it wasn't. Oh ... I 
know all about the girl. She'd kissed men before, 
and she has kissed them since. 

MAX. With just the same kisses that she kissed you. 

ANATOL. No. I wish I hadn't told you. 

MAX. Never mind. You felt all you felt and all 
she ought to have felt as well. 

ANATOL. Have you ever seen much of her? 

MAX. Quite a lot. 

ANATOL. Have you? 

MAX. Don't distress yourself. She's a witty little 
devil, and we always hked a chat. 
ANATOL. A friendly chat? 

44 



AN EPISODE 



MAX. Not a bit more. 

AXATOL. Then I swear to you, Max . . . that girl 
loved me to distraction. 

MAX. Quite so. Let's get on with the others [he 
takes a tenth packet], ' Could I but tell the meaning 
of your smile, you green-eyed ' . . . 

AXATOL. I say . . . d'you know that circus is back 
again 

MAX. Yes . . . she's still with it. 
AXATOL. Sure? 

MAX. Quite. I shall see her this evening . . . she's 
coming to call. 

AXATOL. Well! Why on earth didn't you tell me 
that before.^ 

MAX. What's it to do with you.^ Your past is 
dead . . . look at it. 
AXATOL. But . . . 

MAX. Besides . . . yesterday's romance warmed up. 
Don't risk that. 

AXATOL. I wonder if I could feel the same for her 
again. 

MAX. There are other dangers. You take great 
care of this Episode of 3-ours. Don't let it catch 
cold. 

AXATOL. But I mustn't miss a chance of seeing her. 

MAX. She's wiser than you I Has she ever sent 
3'ou even a postcard." But perhaps she forgot all 
about you. 

AXATOL. Max. . . why not believe me when I tell 
3'ou . . , ? 
MAX. Well.? 

45 



ANATOL 



ANATOL. That the hour we spent together was one 
of those things that never fade. 

There^s a knock at the door of the fiat. 
MAX. Here she is! 
ANATOL. What! 

MAX. You go into my bedroom and then sKp out. 
ANATOi.. Certainly not. 
MAX. You'd much better. 
ANATOL. I shall not. 

MAX. Stand there then, where she won't see you at 
once. 

ANATOL. But why . . . ? 

Stilly he stands in the shadow^ and max goes to 

the door to welcome bianca. She is as he 

described her. 
BIANCA. Max! How are you? I'm back. 
MAX. How are you, Bibi.'^ Nice of you to come. 
BIANCA. First visit. 
MAX. Honoured. 

BIANCA. How's everybody.^ Suppers at Sacher's 
again now? 

MAX. But you must turn up. Sometimes you 
didn't. 

BIANCA. I did. 

MAX. Not when you'd something better to do. 
BIANCA. But you weren't jealous. I wish they'd 
all take lessons from you. Why can't a man be fond 
of one without making himself a nuisance ? Oh . . . 
who's that? Making one jump! 

She has discovered anatol, who comes forward, 
silent, expectant. She stares at him. 
46 



AN EPISODE 



MAX. An old friend, Bibi. 

BIANCA. Oh ... 

MAX. Quite a surprise. 

ANATOL comes nearer, bianca is desperately 
puzzled. She doesn't recall him in the least. 
She is most polite. 
BIANCA. Of course . . . we've met . . . 
ANATOL. Bianca. 
BIANCA. Yes ... to be sure. 

ANATOL seizes her hand quite passionately. 
ANATOL. Bianca. 

BIANCA. But . . . I'm so stupid . . . where was it ? 
MAX. Try hard to remember. 
BIANCA. Of course ... in Petersburg. 
ANATOL. No ... it wasn't in Petersburg. 

With that he drops her handy takes his hat and 
coat and goes. 
BIANCA. Oh . . . 

The "flat door slams. 
MAX. He's gone. 

BIANCA. But . . . I'm so sorry . . . what's wrong . . . ? 
MAX. Don't you really remember him? 
BIANCA. Yes . . . quite well. But I can't place him 
for the life of me. 

MAX. Anatol, Bibi . . . Anatol. 

BIANCA \her brow wrinkling in puzzlement^. Ana- 
tol .. . Anatol .^^ 

MAX. Anatol ... at the piano . . . and a lamp 
casting shadows on your shimmering hair. Here . . . 
not in Petersburg . . . three years ago. 

A light breaks on bianca. 
47 



ANATOL 



BiANCA. Well ... of course . . . Anatol! How 
stupid of me. Oh, do call him back. Anatol! 
She makes for the door. 

MAX. No . . . he's gone. 

She looks from the windom. 

BIANCA. There he goes. 

MAX [^behind her^. Yes... there he goes. 

BIANCA [^calling~\. Anatol! 

MAX. No use ... he can't hear. 

BIANCA. You will apologise to him, won't you? 
I've hurt his feelings. Such a nice fellow. 

MAX. You're quite sure you remember him.'^ 

BIANCA. Why, yes ! But, you know, there is some 
one in Petersburg as like him as two peas. 

MAX. I'll tell him so. 

BIANCA. Besides . . . when you haven't given a man 
a thought for three years . . . and there he suddenly 
is plumped in front of you! One can't remember 
everybody. 

MAX [^grimli/ smiling]^ . Let's shut the window . . . 
it's gone chilly. 

BIANCA. I shall run against him somehow. 

MAX. No doubt [^he picks up and holds out to her 
the little envelope marked ' Episode ']. D'you know 
what this is? 

BIANCA. What.? 

MAX. The rosebud you were wearing that evening 
...the evening, Bibi . . . 
BIANCA. Has he kept it.'^ 
MAX. As you see. 

BIANCA. D'you mean he was in love with me? 

48 



AN EPISODE 



MAX. Passionately . . . unf athomably . , . and for 
ever and a day. But so he was with all these others. 
BiANCA surveys the table full. 
BiANCA. All that lot! 
MAX. We've been sorting you out. 
BIANCA. Sorting us . . . 
MAX. Sorting you. 

BIANCA. Oh, indeed! Where do I go.?* 
MAX. Here. 

He gravely drops * Episode ' m the -fire. 
BIANCA. Well! 

MAX. All the revenge I can give him you see. 
But don't be cross ... I want to hear your news, 

BIANCA. I don't think I feel like it now. 

MAX. Bibi . . . don't quarrel with m e. Let's hear 
about the fellow in Petersburg, who's as like him as 
two peas. 

BIANCA. Don't be absurd. 

MAX. Or anything else you like. Fll tell you how 
to begin. 

He settles her m a big armchair, and settles him- 
self i/n another beside her. 
MAX. Once upon a time there was a big, big 
city . . • 

BIANCA . . . And into the city came a big, big 
circus ... 

MAX. . . . And in the circus there was a tiny, tiny 
girl . . . 

BIANCA. . . • Who jumped through a big, big 
hoop. 

49 



ANATOL 

MAX. Now we^re getting on. And in a box every 
evening . . . 

BiANCA. Yes ... in a box every evening there sat 
a very good-looking man . . . 
MAX. Quite so . . . and then ? 

They settle to their friendly chat. 



50 



IV 

KEEPSAKES 



KEEPSAKES 



Emily's sitting-room is quite prettily furnished, and 
looks over some gardens, where the trees are just 
now breaking into leaf. It is late in the after- 
noon. Alone in the room and at the writing- 
desk sits ANATOL. He is feverishly searching 
the drawers, emily comes in and finds him. 

EMILY. What are you doing at my desk . . . 
rummaging about ? Anatol ! 

He hardly looks up even, 

ANATOL. I have a perfect right to. And it's as 
well I did. 

EMILY. What have you found . . . except your own 
letters ? 

ANATOL. My letters! What do you call these? 
Two tiny objects which he had placed safely on 

the top of the desk. He shows them to her in 

his outstretched palm. 
EMILY. What? 

ANATOL. These two stones. This one's a ruby . . . 
and this other dark one. I've never seen them before. 
I didn't give them you. 

EMILY turns away, and for a moment doesn^t 
answer. When she does it is very quietly. 
EMILY. No ... I had quite forgotten them. 

53 



ANATOL 



ANATOL [^still brutally, sneeringly angry']. Had 
you ! They were hidden away safe enough in the bot- 
tom of that drawer. Come on . . . you'd better con- 
fess. Don't lie. Oh, all you women do ! Won't you.? 
Don't pretend to be indignant. Yes, of course . . . sulk 
when you're found out. I want to know what else there 
is. Where have you hidden your other treasures .'^ 
He returns to his ransacking. 

EMILY. I haven't any others. 

ANATOL. Haven't you.? 

EMILY [quite passive]. You needn't look. I 
swear I haven't. 

ANATOL. Well then . . . what about these.? 

EMILY. I suppose I was wrong. I shouldn't have . . . 
He leaves the desk and faces her. 

ANATOL. You suppose ! Now Emily . . . to-morrow 
we were to be married. I thought we'd got rid of 
the past . . . utterly. Didn't I bring you everything 
I had that could remind me of mine . . . letters, keep- 
sakes, everything . . . and didn't we burn them? And 
your rings and bracelets and earrings ! Haven't we 
got rid of them too . . • all of them? Given them 
away . . . thrown them into the river . . . out of the 
window . . . anywhere ? And you s w o r e to me that 
you had done with it all . . . wiped everything out ! 
You said that now you knew you'd never really been 
in love with any one before. And I believed you ! I 
suppose we always do believe women when the lies 
are pleasant ones . . . from their first lie to their last 
. . . because we want to. 

EMILY. Shall I swear it again? 

54 



KEEPSAKES 



ANATOL. What's the good? I've done with you . . . 
done with you. Oh, you were very clever about it! 
To see you standing there in front of the fire watch- 
ing those letters and things burn . . . poking them 
down so that nothing should escape , . . wouldn't one 
have thought you were only thankful to be rid of 
every speck of your past? You sobbed in my arms 
that day by the river when we threw that bracelet 
into the water! Tears of repentance? All a sham! 
Now I'll tell you ... I didn't trust you in spite 
of them. I came here to find out for myself . . . and 
I have found out. \_She is sitting silent, her head 
away.^ Say something. Defend yourself. 

EMILY. No . . . you've made up your mind to have 
done with me. 

ANATOL. But I want to know about these two 
things. Why keep just these two? 

EMILY. You don't love me any more. 

ANATOL. Emily ... I want to know the truth. 

EMILY. What's the good if you don't love me any 
more? 

ANATOL. Tell me the truth. Perhaps . . . 
EMILY. Well? 

ANATOL. Perhaps you can make things seem a bit 
better. I don't want to think badly of you, Emily. 
She turns a little towards him. 
EMILY. D'you forgive me? 
ANATOL. Tell me the truth. 
EMILY. If I do . . . will you forgive me? 

He doesnH answer for a moment. Then his 
voice half hardens again. 

55 



ANATOL 



ANATOii. This ruby ! What about it . . . why 
have you kept it? 

EMII.Y. Will you be patient ? 

ANATOL. Yes . . . yes. Go on. 

After a moment she does; speaking quite tone- 
lessly^ her head bent. 

EMILY. It came out of a locket. It fell out. 

ANATOL. Who gave you the locket .^^ 

EMILY. Oh . . . that wasn't it. It was because of 
. . . the day I was wearing it. 

ANATOL. But who gave it you.'^ 

EMILY. What does it matter? My mother, I 
think. Oh, Anatol ... if I were the bad lot you 
think me, I could easily say I kept the stone because 
my mother gave it me. You'd believe that. I kept 
it because I didn't want ever to forget that day I 
nearly lost it. 

ANATOL. Go on. 

EMILY. I am so glad to be telling you. But 
listen now. You'd laugh at my being jealous of the 
first woman you were ever in love with, wouldn't 
^ you? 

ANATOL. What's that to do with it? 

EMILY. But I dare say j^ou're still in love with the 
memory of her. It's the sort of old unhappiness 
one never wants quite to lose, isn't it? The day I 
dropped that ruby means a lot to me, because it was 
the day I had my first glimpse of . . . everything 
that you and I can mean to each other now, if we 
will. Oh ... if I'd never had to learn how to love . . . 
d'you think I could love you as I do ? Anatol ... if 

56 



KEEPSAKES 



we'd met then... before we knew what love meant 
. . . should we have given each other a thought? 
Don't shake your head. You once said that to me 
yourself. 

ANATOL. I did. 

EMILY. You told me not to be so sorry that things 
were ... as they were . . . because if we hadn't both 
learnt by experience, we could never love each other 
as we do. 

ANATOL [^bitterly']. Yes . . . that's all the consola- 
tion one has in loving a woman who ... \_he swallows 
the insult'] oh, never mind! 

EMILY [with dignity']. I'm telling yon the truth 
about this. I kept it to remind me of the day 
that . . . 

ANATOL. Say the words! 

EMILY. You like to humiliate me. It was the very 
first time that ... I was just a silly girl. What 
was I . . . sixteen? 

ANATOL. He was twenty . . . and tall and dark . . . 
I'm sure. 

EMILY [quite simply] . D'you know I don't remem- 
ber, dear. I remember the wood we were in, and the 
wind shaking the trees. It was in the spring. Yes 
. . . and the sun shone through the branches and made 
the primroses look so bright. 

ANATOL paces the room with a sudden access of 
fury. 

ANATOL. And you were stolen from me before I 
ever knew you ! Don't you hate him . . . the very 
thought of \iim? 

57 



ANATOL 



EMI1.Y. Perhaps he gave me to you, Anatol. [That 
brings him to a stand/\ No . . . whatever happens I 
don't hate the thought of him ... I won't pretend 
I ever did. Don't you know I love you as I have 
never loved any one? And no one has ever loved 
you as I love you. But in spite of that . . . and 
even though when you kissed me first you made me 
forget every one else ... all I'd ever gone through 
. . . wiped it out utterly . . . you can't make me forget, 
and you can't make me regret the moments that made 
me a woman. 

ANATOL.. You love m c , do you? 

EMILY. I hardly remember what he looked like . . . 
or anything he said. 

ANATOL. Only that he kissed you . . . held you 
close to him . . . turned your ignorance into knowl- 
edge and your innocence into guilt. And you're 
grateful for that . . . grateful! Good God . . . can't 
you see what this means to me . . . stirring up again 
all this horrible past when I'd almost forgotten that 
there ever was or could be any other man in the world 
for you but me. 

She looks at him and then speaks with a certavn 
cold sadness. 

EMILY. Yes . . . you don't understand. I think you 
were right. We'd better part. 

ANATOL, [not quite prepared for this^. What else 
d'you expect of me? 

EMILY [emotional for the first time']. I envy a 
woman who can lie. It's a costly business telling the 
truth. But there's one thing I'd like to know. 

58 



KEEPSAKES 



Why you have always begged me to be quite 
straight with you. How many times have you said 
that there was nothing you couldn't forgive me 
except a he. So I confessed everything to you . . . 
and never cared how bad I made myself out. I told 
you that the only good thing about me was my love 
for you. Any other woman would have made ex- 
cuses ... I didn't. I let you know that I was vain 
and wanton . . . that I'd wasted and sold myself . . . 
that I wasn't worth your loving. I told you that 
before I'd let you come near me. I hid away from 
you, didn't I? It was just because I loved you so. 
You found me and you cried for me. But I still said 
No. I didn't want to drag you down . . . although 
your love meant more to me than anything else had 
ever meant in the world. I've never loved any one 
but you. In spite of everything you took me. I 
was so glad and so afraid ! But why have you given 
me back bit by bit all the beauty and self-respect 
that the others had robbed me of . . . why have you 
made me innocent again by being great enough to 
be able to forgive ... if now . . , ? 

ANATOL \_echoing her as she pauses'] . Now? 

EMILY. If now you're done with me only because I 
am just like all the others.^ 

ANATOL. No, no, dear . . . you're not, you're not. 

EMILY. What do you want me to do then.^^ Shall 
I throw it away.f^ 

She fingers the little ruby disdainfully, 

ANATOL \^passionately self-reproachfuV\, What is 
there great about me? I'm worse than human. 

59 



ANATOL 



Yes . . . throw it away. You dropped it, did you, 
among the primroses . . . and it ghttered in the 
sun . . . 

They sit there silently; the poor little trinket on 
the table between them. Then he rouses. 
ANATOL. It's dark . . . let's go out. 
EMILY. It'll be so cold. 

ANATOii. No . . . you can feel the Spring's in the 
air. 

EMILY. Very well, darling. 

She moves, and as he moves too his eye lights on 
the other stone he had found. 
ANATOL. But what about this one? 
EMILY. That? 

ANATOL. Yes, the black stone . . . what about 
that? 

She takes it up with care. 
EMILY. Don't you know what it is? 
ANATOL. It looks like a . . . 
EMILY. It's a black diamond ! 

Her eyes glitter as she holds it. 

ANATOL. What? 

EMILY. They're very scarce. 

ANATOL [hardly articulate']. Why... have you 
kept it? 

EMILY. It's worth a hundred pounds ! 

ANATOL. Ah! 

He snatches the stone from her and throws it 
into the fire. She shrieks out savagely . . . 
60 



KEEPSAKES 



EMILY. What are you doing? 

Then throws herself on her knees and snatching 
up the tongs does her best to rescue it. He 
watches her grimly for a little; the firelight 
makes ugly shadows on her face. Then he 
says quietly . . . 
ANATOL. That was your price, was it? 

And he leaves her. 



61 



V 

FAREWELL SUPPER 



A FAREWELL SUPPER 



In a private room at Sacher^s restaurant one evening, 
about supper-time, we "find anatol and max. 
MAX is comfortable upon a sofa with a cigarette, 
anatol stands hy the door discussing the menu 
with the waiter. 

MAX. Haven't you done.?^ 
ANATOL. Just. Don't forget now. 

This to the waiter, who disappears, anatol 
begins to pace the room, nervously, 
MAX. Suppose she don't turn up after all. 
ANATOL. It's only ten. She couldn't be here yet. 
MAX. The ballet must be over long ago. 
ANATOL. Give her time to take her paint off and 
dress. Shall I go over and wait for her.?^ 
MAX. Don't spoil the girl. 

ANATOL [mirthlessly laughing'] , Spoil her . . . 
spoil her ! 

MAX. I know . . . you behave like a brute to her. 
Well . . . that's one way of spoiling a woman. 

ANATOL. No doubt. [Then, suddenly stopping 
before his friend.'] But, my dear Max. . . when I 
tell you . . . oh. Lord ! 

MAX. Well.? 

65 



ANATOL 



ANATOL. . . . What a critical evening this is ! 
MAX. Critical ! Have you asked her to marry you ? 
ANATOi.. Worse than that. 

MAX \_sitting up very straightl. You've married 
her? Well! 

ANATOL. What a Philistine you are. When will 
you learn that there are spiritual crises besides 
which such commonplace matters as . . . 

MAX [^subsiding agairf\. We know! If you've only 
got one of those on I wouldn't worry her with it. 

ANATOL \^grimly^. Wouldn't you.'^ What makes 
this evening critical, my friend, is that it's to be 
the last. 

MAX l^sitting up again]. What? 
ANATOL. Yes . . . our farewell supper. 
MAX. What am I doing at it? 
ANATOL. You are to be the undertaker ... to our 
dead love. 

MAX. Thank you ! I shall have a pleasant evening. 
ANATOL. All the week I've been putting it off. 
MAX. You should be hungry enough for it by this 
time. 

ANATOL. Oh, we've had supper every night. But 
I've never known how to begin . . . the right words to 
use. I tell 3^ou . . . it's nervous work. 

MAX. If you expect me to prompt you . . . 

ANATOL. I expect you to stand by me. Smooth 
things down . . . keep her quiet . . . explain. 

MAX. Then suppose you explain first. 

ANATOL considers for half a second. Then . . . 

ANATOL. She bores me. 

66 



A FAREWELL SUPPER 



MAX. I see ! And there's another she . . . who 
doesn't? 

ANATOL,. Yes. 

MAX [with fullest comprehension^. Ah! 

ANATOL. \_quite rapturously'\. And what another! 

MAX. Please describe her. 

ANATOL. She makes me feel as Pve never felt 
before. She ... I can't describe her. 

MAX. No . . . one never can till it's all over. 

ANATOL. She's a little girl that . . . well, she's an 
andante of a girl. 

MAX. Not out of the ballet again.? 

ANATOL. No, no ! She's like a waltz . . . simple, 
alluring, dreamy. Yes, that's what she's like. Don't 
you know . . . No, of course you don't 1 And how 
can I explain? When I'm with her I find I grow 
simple too. If I take her a bunch of violets . . . the 
tears come into her eyes. 

MAX. Try her with some diamonds. 

ANATOL. I knew you wouldn't understand in the 
least. I should no more think of bringing her to 
a place like this ... I Those little eighteenpenny 
places suit her. You know . . . Soup or Fish : Entree : 
Sweets o r Cheese. We've been to one every night 
this week. 

MAX. You said you'd had supper with Mimi. 

ANATOL. So I have. Two suppers every night this 
week! One with the girl I want to win, and the 
other with the girl I want to lose. And I haven't 
done either yet. 

MAX. Suppose you take Mimi to the Soup o r Fish, 

67 



ANATOL 



and bring the little Andante girl here. That might 
do it. 

ANATOL.. That shows you don't understand. Such 
a child ! If you'd seen her face when I ordered a one 
and tenpenny bottle of wine. 

MAX. Tears in her eyes? 

ANATOX.. She wouldn't let me. 

MAX. What have you been drinl^ing? 

ANATOi.. Shilling claret before ten. After ten, 
champagne. Such is life. 

MAX. Your life ! 

ANATOL. But I've had enough of it. To a man 
with my nice sense of honour . . . my nice sense of 
honour, Max. 

MAX. I heard. 

ANATOL. If I go on like this much longer I shall 
lose my self-respect. 

MAX. So shall I if I have much more to do with 
you. 

ANATOL. How can I play-act at love if I don't 
feel it? 

MAX. No doubt it's better acting when you do. 

ANATOL. I remember telHng Mimi in so many 
words . . . when we first met . . . when we swore that 
nothing should part us . . . My dear, I said, which- 
ever first discovers that the thing is wearing thin 
must tell the other one straight out. 

MAX, Besides swearing that nothing should part 
you. Good ! 

ANATOL. If I've said that once I've said it fifty 
times. We are perfectly free, and when the 

68 



A FAREWELL SUPPER 



time comes we'll go each our own way without 
any fuss. Only remember, I said, what I can't stand 
is deceit. 

MAX. Then I'm sure supper ought to go off very 
well. 

ANATOL. Yes . . . but when it comes to the point . . . 
somehow I can't tell her. She'll cry. I know she'll 
cry, and I can't bear that. Suppose she cries and I 
fall in love with her again . . . then it won't be fair to 
the other one. 

MAX. And the one thing you can't stand is deceit. 

ANATOL. It'll be easier with you here. There's an 
honest, unromantic air about you that would dry any 
tears. 

MAX. Happy to oblige. And how shall I 
start .^^ Tell her she's better off without you. How 
can I? 

ANATOL. Something of that sort. Tell her she 
won't be losing so much. 
MAX. Yes • . . 

ANATOi.. There are hundreds of better-looking 
men . . . men better off. 

MAX. Handsomer, richer . . . and cleverer. 
ANATOii [^half }iumorously~\ . I shouldn't exaggerate. 
At this point the waiter shows in the mimi in 
question. A lovely lady. 
WAITER. This way, Madame. 

She doesn't seem to he in the best of tempers. 
MiMi. Oh ... so here you are ! 
ANATOii l^cheerfullyl. Here we are. [^He takes off 
her wrap with much tenderness.]^ Let me. 

69 



ANATOL 



MiMi. You're a nice one, aren't you? I looked up 
and down . . . 

ANATOL. A good thing you hadn't far to come. 
MIMI. If you say you'll be there for me you ought. 
Hullo, Max. Come on . . . let's feed. 

There^s a knock at the door, 
MIMI. Come in! What's he knocking for? 

It is the WAITER again, expectant of his orders, 
which ANATOii gives him . . . 
ANATOL. Bring supper. 

MIMI sits at the table and, cat-like, fusses her 
appearance. 
MIMI. You weren't in front. 

ANATOL l^with careful candour'] . No ... I had 
to . . . 

MIMI. You didn't miss much. It was precious dull. 

MAX. What was on before the ballet? 

MIMI. I don't know. I go straight to the dressing- 
room and then I go on the stage. I don't bother 
about anything else. Anatol . . . I've a bit of news 
for you. 

ANATOL \^his brow wrinkling a little]. Have you, 
my dear? Important? 

MIMI. Myes : . . may surprise you a bit . . . praps. 

The supper arrives . . . oysters first. 
ANATOL. Well . . . I've some for you, too. 
MIMI. Wait a second. It's no concern of h i s. 
This with a cock of the head towards the well- 
mannered, unconscious waiter. 
ANATOL. You needn't wait . . . we'll ring. 
The waiter departs. Supper has begun. 
TO 



A FAREWELL SUPPER 



ANATOL. Well? 

MiMi [between her oysters]. I think praps it will 
surprise you, Anatol . . . though I don't see why it 
should. Praps it won't . . . and it oughtn't to. 

MAX. They've raised your salary ! 

ANATOL [watching her], Tsch. 

MIMI [ignoring this levity]. No . . . why should it? 
I say . . * are these Ostend or Whitstable? 

ANATOL. Ostend . . . Ostend. 

MIMI. I d o like oysters. They're the only things 
you can go on eating and eating . . . 

MAX [who is doing his full share] . And eating and 
eating and eating. 

MIMI. That's what I always say. 

ANATOL. Well . . . what's this news? 

MIMI. D'you remember something you once said? 

ANATOL. Which of the hundreds ? 

MIMI. Mimi . . . oh, I remember your saying it . . . 
The one thing I can't bear is deceit ! 

ANATOL, not to mention max, is really taken aback. 

ANATOL. What ! 

MIMI. Always tell me the whole truth before it's 
too late. 

ANATOL. Yes, I meant . . . 

MIMI [roguish for a moment]. I say . . . suppose it 
was! 

ANATOL. What d'you mean? 

MIMI. Oh, it's all right ... it isn't. Though it 
might be to-morrow. 

ANATOL [hot and cold]. Will you please explain 
what you mean? 

71 



ANATOL 



MAX [^unJieeded^ What's this? 
MiMi ^meeting a fierce eye~\. You eat your oysters, 
Anatol, or I won't. 

ANATOL. Damn the oysters! 
MIMI. You go on with them. 

ANATOL. You go ou with what you were saying. 
I don't like these jokes. 

MIMI. Now didn't we agree that when it came to 
the point we weren't to make any fuss but . . . ! 
Well ... it has come. 

ANATOL [bereft of breath~\. D'you mean . . . ? 

MIMI. Yes, I do. This is the last time we have 
supper together. 

ANATOL. Oh ! Why . • . would you mind telling 
me? 

MIMI. All is over between us. 
ANATOL. Is it! 

MAX [unable to be silent longer^. Admirable! 
MIMI [a little haughty']. Nothing admirable about 
it. It's true. 

ANATOL [with trembling calm]. My dear Mimi . . . 
please let me understand. Some one has asked you 
to marry him.^ 

MIMI. Oh ... I wouldn't throw you over for that. 
ANATOL. Throw me over! 
MIMI [with her last oyster]. It's no use, Anatol. 
I'm in love . . . head over ears. 

MAX goes into such a fit of laughter that choking 
follows, and he has to be patted on the back. 
ANATOL does the friendly office^ somewhat 
distractedly. 

72 



A FAREWELL SUPPER 



MiMi \_very haughty indeed']. There's nothing to 
laugh at, Max. 

MAX. Oh ... oh . . . oh ! 

ANATOL. Never mind him. Now . . . will you please 
tell me ... .'^ 

MIMI. lam telling you. I'm in love with some- 
body else and I'm telling you straight out like you 
told me. 

ANATOL. Yes, but damn it . , . who? 

MIMI. Now, my dear . . . don't lose your temper, 

ANATOL. I want to know. 

MIMI. Ring the bell. Max, I'm so hungry. 
MAX recovering, does so, 

ANATOi.. Hungry ... at such a moment ! Hungry ! 

MAX [^passing back to his chair, says in anatol's 
ear~\ . Ah . . . but it'll be the first supper she's had 
to-night. 

The waiter arrives, anatol rends him savagely. 
ANATOL. And what do y o u want? 
WAITER Imperfectly polite]. You rang, sir? 
MAX. Bring the next thing. 

While the plates are cleared anatol fumes, but 
MIMI makes casual conversation, 
MIMI. Berthe Hoflich is going to Russia . . . it's 
settled. 

MAX. Letting her go without any fuss? 
MIMI. Oh . . . not more than a bit. 
ANATOL. Where's the wine? Are you asleep to- 
night ? 

WAITER. Beg pardon, sir . . . the wine \^he points 
it out under anatol's nose]. 

73 



ANATOL 



ANATOL. No, no . . . the champagne. 

The waiter goes out for that and for the next 
course. As the door shuts on him . . . 
ANATOL. Now then . . . will you please explain? 
MiMi. Never take a man at his word ! How many 
times have you told me . . . when we feel it's coming 
to an end, say so and end it calmly and quietly? 

ANATOL [with less and less pretence of self- 
control^ . For the last time . . . 
MIMI. He calls this quietly ! 

ANATOL. My dear girl . . . doesn't it occur to you 
that I have some right to know who . . . ? 

MIMI hasn't let her appetite he disturbed; and at 
this moment she is relishing the wine, her 
eyes closed. 
MIMI. Ah! 

ANATOL. Oh, drink it up . . . drink it up ! 
MIMI. Where's the hurry? 

ANATOL \really rather rudely"]. You generally get 
it down quick enough. 

MIMI [^still sipping^. Ah... but it's good-bye to 
claret, too, Anatol. It may be for years, it may be 
for ever. 

ANATOL \^puzzled~\. Oh . . . why? 

MIMI \_with fine resignation']. No more claret for 
me ... no more oysters ... no more champagne! \^Ai 
this moment the waiter begins to hand the next course.] 
And no more filets aux truffes ! All done with now. 

MAX. Oh . . . what a sentimental tummy ! Have 
some? 

MIMI [with gusto]. I will. 

74 



A FAREWELL SUPPER 



MAX. You've no appetite, AnatoL 

The waiter having served them disappears once 
more, and once more anatol plunges into 
trouble, 

ANATOL. Well, now . . . who's the lucky fellow? 

MiMi [^serene and enjoying her -filet aux truffes']. If 
I told you you wouldn't be any the wiser. 

ANATOL.. But what sort of a chap? How did you 
come across him? What does he look like? 

MIMI [^seraphic^. He's a perfect picture of a man. 

ANATOL. Oh, that's enough, of course. 

MIMI. It's got to be. [^She re-starts her chant of 
self-sacrifice,^ No more oysters . . . ! 

ANATOL. Yes . . . you said that. 

MIMI. No more champagne! 

ANATOL. Damn it . . . is that his only excuse for 
existence . . . not being able to stand you oysters and 
champagne ? 

MAX. He couldn't live by that. 

MIMI. What's the odds as long as I love him ! I'm 
going to try throwing myself away for once . . . I've 
never felt like this about any one before. 

MAX \mith a twinklel, Anatol could have given 
you an eighteenpenny supper, you know. 

ANATOL. Is he a clerk? Is he a chimney-sweep? 
Is he a candlestick-maker? 

MIMI. Don't you insult him. 

MAX. Tell us. 

MIMI. He's an Artist. 

ANATOL. Music-hall artist? 

MIMI [with dignity~\. He's a fellow-artist of mine. 

75 



ANATOL 



ANATOL. Oh ... an old friend.? You've been 
seeing a lot of him ? Now then . . . how long have 
you been deceiving me? 

MiMi. Should I be telling you if I had? I'm 
taking you at your word and speaking out before it's 
too late. 

ANATOL. How long have you been in love with him? 
You've been thinking things . . . haven't you? 
MIMI. Well ... I couldn't help that. 
ANATOii [his temper rising fast^. Oh! 
MAX. Anatol! 

ANATOL. Do I know the fellow? 
MIMI. I don't suppose you've ever noticed him. 
He's in the chorus. He'll come to the front. 
ANATOL. When did this affair start? 
MIMI. To-night. 
ANATOL. That's not true. 

MIMI. It is. To-night I knew it was my fate. 

ANATOL. Your fate ! Max . . . her fate ! 

MIMI. Yes ... my fate. Why not? 

ANATOL. Now ... I want the whole story. I've a 
right to it. You still belong to me, remember. 
How long has this been going on . . . how did it 
begin ? When had he the impudence . . . ? 

MAX. Yes ... I think you ought to tell us that. 

MIMI [^impatient for the first time^. Oh . . . this is 
all the thanks I get for doing the straight thing. 
Suppose I'd gone like Florrie with von Glehn. He 
hasn't found out yet about her and Hubert. 

ANATOL. He will. 

MIMI. Well, he may. And then again he mayn't. 

76 



A FAREWELL SUPPER 



But you wouldn't have. I know a thing or two more 
than you do. 

For proper emphasis she pours out another glass 
of wine. 

ANATOL. Haven't you had enough? 

MiMi. What . . . when it's the last I shall get? 

MAX {with a nod\. For a week or so. 

MIMI [with a xcin^l. Don't you think it. Fm 
going to stick to Carl. I love him for himself alone. 
H e won't badger and bully me, the dear ! 

ANATOL. You and he have been carrying on under 
my nose for . . . how long? To-night indeed! 

MIMI. Don't believe it if you don't want to. 

MAX. Mimi . . . tell the truth. You two won't part 
friends unless you do. 

ANATOL [recovering some complacency^. And then 
I've a bit of news for you. 

MIMI. Well ... it began like this . . . 

Once more the waiter^ with the champagne this 
time, MIMI stops very discreetly. 

ANATOL. Oh, never mind him. 

So she gets ahead, hut in whispers, till the intruder 
shall have departed, which he does very soon, 

MIMI. A fortnight ago he gave me a rose. Oh, so 
shy he w^as ! I laughed ... I couldn't help it. 

ANATOL. Why didn't you tell me? 

MIMI. Start telling you those sort of things ! I 
should never have done. 

ANATOL. Well? 

MIMI. And he hung round at rehearsals. It made 
me cross at first . . . and then it didn't. 

77 



ANATOL 



ANATOL {^viciously']. No, I'm sure it didn't. 
MiMi. Then we began to have Httle chats. And 
then I began to take such a fancy to him. 
ANATOL. What did you chat about .'^ 

MIMI tries the champagne now. 
MIMI. Oh . . . things. He got expelled from 
school. Then he went into business, and that wasn't 
any good. Then he thought perhaps he could act. 
ANATOL. And never a word to me ! 
MIMI. And then we found out we used to live close 
to each other as children. Just fancy! 
ANATOL, Most touching! 
MIMI [simply^. Wasn't it? 
ANATOL. Well? 

The champagne {one fears it is) has an instant 
effect. She becomes a little vague and 
distant. 

MIMI. That's all. It's my fate. You can't struggle 
against your fate, can you ? Can't . . . struggle . . . 
against . . . 

She stops suddenly, anatol waits for a minute, 
then . . . 

ANATOL. But I've not been told what happened to- 
night. 

MIMI. What happened ... 

Her eyes close. 
MAX l^with fine effecf]. Hush. . . she sleeps. 
ANATOL. Well, wake her up. Take that wine away 
from her. I want to know what happened to-night. 
Mimi . . . Mimi ! 

She wakes up, refreshed apparently. 
78 



A FAREWELL SUPPER 



MiMi. To-night? He told me he loved me. 
ANATOL. What did you say? 

MIMI. I said I was awfully glad. And I mustn't 
play the silly fool with him, must I? So it's good- 
bye to you. 

ANATOL. It's him you're considering, not me. 

MIMI l^with friendly candour~\, I don't think I ever 
really liked you, Anatol. 

ANATOL. Thank you. I'm happy to say that 
leaves me cold. 

MIMI. Don't be nasty. 

ANATOL. Would you be surprised to hear that I 
hope to get on very well without you for the 
future? 

MIMI. Really? 

ANATOL throws Ms belated bomb. 
ANATOL. I am in love, too. 

And it is received by mimi with the indifference 
of scepticism. 
MIMI. Think of that ! 

ANATOL. And have been for some time. Ask 
Max. I was telling him when you came in. 

She smiles at this in the most irritating way. 

MIMI. Yes . . . I'm sure you were. 

ANATOL [piling it up'\. She's younger and rather 
prettier than you. 

MIMI. I'm sure she is. 

ANATOL. And I'd throw six hundred and seventy 
of your sort into the sea for her. \_But mimi, not in 
the least impressed or distressed, laughs loud.^ You 
needn't laugh. Ask Max. 

79 



ANATOL 



MiMi. If I were you I should have invented all 
that a little earlier. 

ANATOL [^aghasf]. But it's true. I haven't cared 
that much about you since . . . ! You've been boring 
me till I could only stay in the room with you by 
sitting and thinking of her. I've had to shut my 
eyes tight and think it was her I was kissing. 

MIMI \_as comfortable as ever']. Ditto to that, my 
dear. 

ANATOL takes a nasty turn. 
ANATOL. Well . . . that's not all. Say ditto to 
this if you can. 

She notices the change in his tone, puts down her 
wine-glass, and looks squarely at him. 
MIMI. To what? 

ANATOL. I could have told you all you've been 
telling me months ago. And weeks ago I could 
have told you a good deal more. 

MIMI. D'you mean . . . ? 

ANATOL. Yes, I do. I have behaved very badly to 
you . . . dear Mimi. 

MIMI gets up outraged. 
MIMI. Oh . . . you cad ! 

ANATOL \_grateful for the abuse] . And only just 
in time, too ... it seems ! You wanted to get there 
first, did you.^^ Well... thank God, I have no 
illusions ! 

But MIMI has gone to collect her things: her hat, 
her cloak. And she puts them on, too, not 
waiting a moment. 
MIMI. Oh ... it only shows! 

80 



A FAREWELL SUPPER 



ANATOL. Doesn't it! Shows what? 
MiMi. What a brute a man can be! 
ANATOL. A brute . . . am I? 

MIMI. Yes, a brute ... a tactless brute. [For a 
moment she gives him undivided attention.^ After 
all . . . I never told you that. 

Abysses open! 

ANATOL. What! 

MAX. Oh, never mind! 

ANATOL. Never told me what.^ That you and 
he . . . 

MIMI [with most righteous indignation^. And I 
never would have told it you. Only a man could be 
so . . . unpleasant ! 

Heaven knows what might happen, anatol so 
twitches with rage and amazement. But 
the timely calm waiter saves the situation 
with yet another course. 
WAITER. I beg pardon. 

ANATOL. Oh, go to . . . ! [He swallows the word, 
and recovers a little. ~\ 
MIMI. Ices ! 

And, pleased as a child, she goes hack to her 
chair to begin on hers, anatol, in his 
turn, is deeply shocked. 
anatol. Can you eat ices at a moment like this? 
MAX \^starting on his too~\. Yes, of course she can. 
It's good-bye to them for ever. 

MIMI [between the spoonfuls']. No more ices... 
no more claret ... no more champagne ... no more 
oysters ! \Then, as she gets up to go.] And thank 

81 



ANATOL 

goodness ... no more Anatol. [^But on her way to 
the door she notices on the sideboard the cigars. She 
helps herself to a handful. Then turns with the 
sweetest of smiles.'] Not for me. They're for him! 
She departs. 
MAX. I said it'd go off all right. 

ANATOL is speechless. 



82 



VI 

DYING PANGS 



DYING PANGS 



One spring afternoon it is growing dusk in anatol's 
room, though through the open window the 
broad expanse of sky still shines clear and blue. 
ANATOL and MAX come in from a walk, 

MAX. I didn't mean to come up with you., 
ANATOL. But don't go. 
MAX. I shall be in the way. 

ANATOL. I'm not sure she'll come. Three times 
out of four she won't. 

MAX. I couldn't stand that. 

ANATOL. She has excellent excuses. I dare say 
they're sometimes true. 

MAX. Three times out of four. 
ANATOL. Hardly that ! Max, never, never be the 
lover of a married woman. There's nothing deadlier. 
MAX. Except being her husband. 
ANATOL. I've been in this mess . . . how long? 
Two years .^^ More. It was two years last Easter 
that . . . 

MAX, What's gone wrong.? 

ANATOL, who has taken off neither coat nor hat, 
who still carries his stick in his hand, flings 
himself into a chair by the window. 
85 



ANATOL 



ANATOi.. Fm weary of it. I wish . . . oh, I don't 
know what I wish. 

MAX. Go abroad for a bit. 
ANATOL. What's the good? 

MAX. Wouldn't that bring it to an end quicker? 
ANATOL. It might. 

MAX. I've seen you through this sort of thing 
before. And the last time, how long did it take 
you to make up your mind to have done with that 
silly girl who had never been worth worrying about 
at aU? 

ANATOL. D'you think things are dead between us 
now? 

MAX. That wouldn't matter . . . death doesn't 
hurt. But dying pangs do. 

ANATOL. Job's comforter! You're quite right 
though. 

MAX. Talk it over if you like . . . that helps some- 
times. Not to bother over the whys and wherefores, 
but just to diagnose the case. 

ANATOL. You'd like a cheerful ten minutes, would 
you? 

MAX. Well ... if you knew what a face you've 
been carrying round and round the park with you 
this afternoon. 

ANATOL. She said she'd be there. 

MAX. You weren't sorry she wasn't. You couldn't 
have looked as glad to see her as you did a couple 
of years ago. 

ANATOL \_jumping up'\. It's true. But why... 
why? Have I got to go through it again . . . 

86 



DYING PANGS 



this cooling . . . cooling . , . growing cold? It's a 
perfect nightmare. 

MAX. Run away then ... go abroad. Or else 
make up your mind to tell her the truth. 

ANATOL. What is the truth? 

MAX. That you're tired of her. 

ANATOi.. Tell a woman that sort of truth only 
because you're weary of telling lies ! A pleasant 
job. 

MAX. No doubt you'd both of you do anything 
rather than face the brutal facts. But why? 

ANATOL. Because we still don't thoroughly believe 
in the brutal facts . . . that's why. Even in this dull, 
dying autumn of our passion, there come to us 
days of spring . . . brighter than any we've ever 
known. You never so much want to be happy 
with a woman as when you know that you're ceasing 
to care for her. And when the happy moments 
come, we don't look too closely at them either. We 
only feel so ashamed ... we mutely apologise for 
having doubted ourselves and ea:h other. Love's 
like a candle flame ... it flickers highest when it's 
going out. 

MAX. And the end's in sight often much sooner 
than we think. You can date the death of some 
love affairs from the very first kiss. But a man 
may be on his deathbed and swear he's never better. 

ANATOL. Not I, worse luck. In love affairs, my 
friend, I have always been a valetudinarian. Very 
likely I knew that I wasn't so ill as I thought . . . 
I felt so much the worse for that. I've sometimes 

87 



ANATOL 



fancied I have a sort of evil eye . . . turned in- 
wards ... to wither my own happiness. 

MAX. A most rare and distinguished deformity. 

ANATOL. You're welcome to it for me. Lord . . . 
how I've envied lucky, careless devils, who can be 
supremely happy in the passing moment. I've never 
valued a thing when I had it. 

MAX. Often they don't know they're happy. 

ANATOL. But they needn't feel guilty afterwards. 

MAX. Guilty? 

ANATOL. She and I knew well enough, didn't we, 
that though we might swear to love each other till 
death and after, yet the end of it all was never so 
very far off Then why didn't we make the most 
of our time? For we never did. We're guilty of 
lost opportunity. 

MAX. Oh, my dear Anatol . . . these dragged-out 
affairs are very bad for you. You're too quick-witted 
for them. 

ANATOL. Am I? 

MAX. jaunted by the past and afraid of the 
future) . . why, your one chance of happiness is to 
keep the present, at least, clear and clean and forget- 
ful. Be a little stupid about it if you must. 

ANATOL. Yes . . . yes. 

MAX. But you jumble past, present, and future to- 
gether till I don't think you know which you're 
living in. All you think of to-day is your yesterday's 
remorse for the sins that you mean to commit 
to-morrow. 

ANATOL. And that's not half the nonsense it sounds. 

88 



DYING PANGS 



MAX. Thank you. But we must all talk our share 
of platitudes too ... so here goes for mine. Anatol, 
pull yourself together ... be a man. 

ANATOL. Max . . . you can't keep a straight face 
as you say it. Besides, I don't think I want to pull 
myself together. What a lot one loses by being a 
Man ! There are a dozen ways of being an interest- 
ing invalid, and a fellow can choose his own. But 
there's only one way of being in rude health . . . and 
that's such a dull one. No, thanks. 

MAX. Vanity! 

ANATOii. Now for a platitude about vanity. 
MAX. No. My onlj^ concern is that you won't go 
abroad. 

ANATOL. I may. But it must be at a moment's 
notice. I hate planning things. I particularly hate 
packing, and looking up trains, and ordering a cab, 
and . . . 

MAX. I'll do all that for you. 

Suddenly, as if in response to some instinct, 
AXATOL turns to the window and looks out. 
MAX. What is it? 
ANATOL. Nothing. 

MAX. I beg your pardon. I forgot. I'm off. 

ANATOL. Max ... at this moment I feel more in 
love with her than ever. 

MAX. You probably are more in love with her 
than ever ... at this moment. 

ANATOL. Then don't order the cab. 

MAX. But the boat-train don't leave for an hour 
and a half. I could send your luggage on after. 

89 



ANATOL 



ANATOi.. Thank you so much. 
MAX. Now I must make a good exit . . . with an 
epigram. 

ANATOL. Please. 

MAX. Woman is a riddle . . . 

ANATOL. Oh, really! 

MAX. Wait, that's only half of it. Woman is 
a riddle . . . says a man. What a riddle would Man 
be for women ... if they'd only brains enough to 
want to guess it. 
ANATOL. Bravo. 

MAX bows to his applause and departs, anatol 
is more restless than ever. He paces the 
room. He goes to the window, where he can 
now hear some violinist practising in the 
room above. He lights a cigarette and sits 
down to wait as patiently as may be. But 
he hears a sound in the hall. He jumps up 
and goes to the door as it opens to admit 
ELSA. She comes in a little furtively. She 
is dressed as a smart rich woman should be, 
but she is rather heavily veiled. 
anatol. At last ! 
ELSA. Yes . . . I'm late. 

He quite tenderly puts up the veil to hiss her. 
After that she takes it off, her hat too. 
ELSA. I couldn't come before. 

ANATOL. You might have let me know. Waiting 
does get on one's nerves. But you can stop a bit. 
ELSA. Not long, darling. You see, my husband . . . 
He breaks away from her almost rudely. 
90 



DYING PANGS 



ELSA. My dear . . . can I help that ? 
ANATOL. No, you can't. There it is . . . we may as 
well face it. Come to me. 

He is by the window and tries to draw her to 
him, hut she hangs hack, 
ELSA. No, no . . . some one might see me. 
ANATOii. It's too dark . . . and the curtain hides us. 

She slips into his arms, 
ANATOii. I wish you hadn't to go so soon. I've 
not seen you for two days. Then you only stayed 
ten minutes. 

ELSA. Do you love me so.^ 

ANATOL. Do I not? What aren't you to me? If 
I could have you here always . . . 
ELSA. I'm glad. 

ANATOL. Sit by me. \^He draws her close heside 
himJ\ Where's your hand? \^He holds it and Msses 
it.l That's the old man upstairs playing. Plays 
well, doesn't he? 

They sit together there in the twilight, listening, 

ELSA. Dear one! 

ANATOL. Think if we were in Italy now ... in 
Venice ! 

ELSA. I've not been to Venice since I was there for 
my honeymoon. 

ANATOL shrivels. 
ANATOL. Need you have said that? 
ELSA [with a gush of remorsel . Darling . , . but 
I've never loved any one but you. No . . . not . . . 
not my husband. 

ANATOL [m some agony~\. Please do try and forget 

91 



ANATOL 



that you're married . . . just for thirty seconds. 
Can't you obliterate everything for a moment but 
ourselves ? 

She apparently does, and there is silence. Then a 
clock strikes and elsa looks round quickly. 
ELSA. What's that? 

ANATOL. Elsa . . . never mind. Forget everything 
but me. 

ELSA \^turning hack to him all the more tenderly^. 
Haven't I forgotten everything but you . . . for you ^ 
ANATOL. Oh . . . my dear . . . my dear ! 

He kisses her hand and there is silence again. 
Then the lady says, very tentatively, almost 
tremulously . . . 
ELSA. Anatol . . . 
ANATOL. Yes, darling. 

She makes a half serious little face at him as a 
sign that she really must he off. He won't 
understand. 
ANATOL. What is it.^ 
ELSA. I simply must go. 

ANATOL. Must.'^ 
ELSA. Must. 

He gets up . . . goes right away from her. 
ANATOL. Very well. 
ELSA. Oh . . . you are difficult. 
ANATOL. Difficult ! I sometimes think you want 
to drive me mad. 

ELSA. And this is the thanks I get! 
ANATOL. Thanks ! What do you expect thanks 

92 



DYING PANGS 



for? Don't I give you as much love as I get? Is 
it worth less to you than yours is to me? Why 
thanks ? 

ELS A. Don't you owe me just a little gratitude 
for the sacrifice I've made for you? 

ANATOL. I don't want sacrifices. If it was a 
sacrifice . . . then you didn't love me. 

ELSA. Not love you! I'm an unfaithful wife for 
your sake . . . and you say I don't love you. 

ANATOL. I didn't say so, Elsa. 

ELSA. Oh . . . when I've done . . . w^hat I've done. 

ANATOL. What you've done! I'll tell you all that 
you've done. Seven years back you were a pretty 
gawky girl, weren't you? Your people got you 
married . . . because that's the thing to do with 
pretty gawky girls. Then you went a honeymoon in 
Venice . . . you liked that well enough. 

ELSA l^indignantly']. I didn't. 

ANATOL. Oh, yes, you did ! You were in love . . . 
more or less. 

ELSA. I wasn't. 

ANATOL. He was, then. I'm sure he petted you 
nicely . . . anyhow, you were his little wife. Then 
back to Vienna . • . and after a bit to boredom. Be- 
cause you'd grown a pretty woman by now . . . and, 
really, he's a precious fool. So you learned to flirt 
. . . harmlessly enough, no doubt ! You tell me I'm 
the only man you've ever really loved. I can't 
prove it . . . but let's say that's so. It flatters me to 
believe it. 

ELSA. You call me a flirt. 

93 



ANATOL 



ANATOL. I do. Did you never indulge in that 
sensual hypocrisy? 

ELSA. Oh . . . you're unjust! 

ANATOL. Am I? Then real temptation came. You 
played with it . . . you were longing for a romance. 
For you grew prettier than ever . . . and your hus- 
band more of a fool. He was getting fat too . . . 
and ugly. So at last your conscience yielded. You 
coolly looked round for a lover, and chanced to hit 
upon me. 

ELSA. Chanced to hit upon . . . 

ANATOL. Yes ... if it hadn't been me it would have 
been the next man. You thought you were unhappily 
married ... or at least not happily married enough. 
You wanted to be . . . one calls it loved. Of 
course, it was just a flirtation between us at first. . . 
we skated quite skilfully over thin ice. Till one fine 
day . . . what was it ... .'^ one of your friends looking 
happier than usual . . . the sight of some merry little 
baggage in a box at the theatre. Well, and why 
shouldn't I ? . . . said you. And you took the plunge. 
Leaving out fine phrases . . . that's the story of this 
little adventure. 

She does not look at him, but m her voice is 
shame and reproach. 

ELSA. Oh . . . Anatol, Anatol ! 

ANATOL. Well.J^ 

ELSA. You don't mean it. 

ANATOL. I do. 

ELSA. That's what you think of me. 
ANATOL. I'm afraid so. 

94 



DYING PANGS 



ELSA. Then I'd better go. 
ANATOL. I'm not keeping you. 

And she does go . . , quite as far as the door. 
But there she lingers. 
EI.SA. You want me to. 

ANATOi.. My dear! Two minutes ago it was you 
that were in such a hurry. 

ELSA looks up in some relief. 
ELSA. Darhng . . . you know I can't help that. 
My husb . . . 

He suddenly flashes round on her. 

ANATOL. Elsa. 

ELSA. Yes. 

ANATOL. You do love me? Say so. 

ELSA [tears in her eyes^. Do I.^^ Good heavens ! . . , 
what better proofs can I give.?^ 

ANATOL. Shall I tell jom? 

ELSA. I love you with all my heart. 

ANATOL. Then don't go. Don't go back home. 
Come away somewhere with me. Let me have you 
all to myself. 

ELSA. Anatol! 

ANATOL. Isn't that obviously the thing to do? 
How can you go back to him . . . loving me with all 
your heart ? How could I ever have let you ? We've 
been taking it all as a matter of course. But don't 
you see that it can't go on . . . it's impossible. Elsa, 
dear, come away with me . . . you must. We'll go 
wherever you like. To Sicily? Very well . . . further 
then. I'll go as far as you like, Elsa! 

ELSA \hlankly'\. My dear Anatol! 

95 



ANATOL 



ANATOL, No one to take you from me ever again. 
Far away, dear ... we two . . . belonging to each 
other. 

ELSA. Go right away? 
ANATOL. Yes . . . anywhere. 
ELSA. But . . . my dear Anatol . . . 
ANATOL. Well.?^ 

ELSA [with a sort of puzzled blandness']. Where's 
the need? 

ANATOL. Where's the . . . ! 

ELSA. Why go away . . . when we can see each 
other here almost as often as we want? 

ANATOL takes a long look at her and then smiles 
queerly. 

ANATOL. Yes . . . almost. True . . . there is no 
need. 

ELSA. You didn't mean it, did you? 
ANATOL. Did I? 

He turns away from her. She follows him prettily. 
ELSA. Are you still angry? 

The clock chimes again. He turns hack with 
the utmost politeness. 
ANATOL. I'm sure you must go. 

ELSA [a little flusteredl. Oh dear L . , I didn't know 
it was so late. Till to-morrow. I can come at six. 
He helps her with her things. 
ANATOL. Please do. 
ELSA. Not going to kiss me? 
ANATOL. Of course! 

He kisses her. 
96 



DYING PANGS 



ELSA l^encouraginglyl. Things'll look brighter to- 
morrow. 

ANATOL. Good-bye. 

He takes her to the door, where she stops and 
looks up, all sweetness and charm. 
ELSA. Kiss me again. 

He looks at her hard for a minute, then very 
deliberately does so, and she slips away. 
He turns hack and savagely exclaims . . . 
ANATOL. She asked for that kiss. And it makes 
her another cheap woman at last . . . [Then to 
himself in the glass^ And you're a fool ... a fool! 



97 



VII 

THE WEDDING MORNING 



THE WEDDING MORNING 



}te . . . In Vienna, of course, a man's clothes for a 
wedding are what we should call evening dress. 
It also appears that on such occasions, to every 
bridesmaid there is a groomsman, whose business 
it is to provide her with a bouquet. 

is a brilliant winter morning; the lately risen sun 
shines straight into anatol's room, axatol 
stands on the hither side of his bedroom, door, 
which is a little open. He is listening. After a 
moment he closes the door very softly and comes 
bach into the room. He looks nervous and rather 
puzzled. He sits down on not the most comfort- 
able chair with a fretful sigh. Then he gets up 
to ring the bell. Then he sits down again. His 
costume is the strangest mixture of early morn- 
ing and overnight that ever was: a dressing 
jacket and dress trousers, slippers, and a scarf 
round the neck; but he looks bathed and shaved, 
and his hair is brushed, fraxz, his man, an- 
swers the bell, and, not seeing him, is going into 
the bedroom, axatol jumps up and stops him, 
more by gestures than with his voice, which he 
hardly raises above a whisper. 

101 



ANATOL 



ANATOL. Here, where are you going? I didn't 
see you. 

FRANZ. Did you ring, sir.?^ 

ANATOL. Yes . . . bring some breakfast. 

FRANZ. Very good, sir. 

And he is going for it. 

ANATOL. Quietly, you idiot. Don't make such a 
noise, [franz is quiet, and apparently comprehend- 
ing. When he is well out of the room, anatol makes 
for the bedroom door again, and again listens. '\ Still 
asleep ! 

FRANZ comes back with the light breakfast, which 
he puts on a table by the fire, saying, very 
comprehendingly indeed ... 
FRANZ. Two cups, sir ? 

anatox. \with a look at him^. Yes. \_Then he can 
hear a bell ring, and he jumps.'] There's some one at 
the door. At this time in the morning! [franz 
goes out again as quietly, anatol. looks around, out 
of the window, at the bedroom door, then doubtfully 
at the teacups, and says . . .] I don't feel in the least 
like getting married. 

In bursts max, in the best of spirits; franz 
behind, looking as if he ought to have 
stopped him. 
MAX. My dear fellow! 

ANATOL. Tsch ! . . . don't talk so loud. Get an- 
other cup, Franz. 

MAX [af the table]. Two cups here already. 

ANATOL. Get another cup, Franz, and then get 
out. 

102 



THE WEDDING MORNING 



FRANZ obeys with discretion, anatol is very 
fretful. 

ANATOL. What are you doing here at eight o'clock 

in the morning? 

MAX. Nearly ten! 
%/ 

ANATOL. Well . . . what are you doing here at ten 
o'clock in the morning? 

MAX. It's my wretched memory. 
ANATOL. Don't talk so loud ! 

MAX. I say . . . you're very jumpy. What's the 
matter ? 

ANATOL. Yes ... I am very jumpy. 

MAX. But not To-day. 

ANATOL. Oh . . . what is it you want ? 

MAX. You know your cousin Alma's to be my 
bridesmaid at the wedding. About her bouquet. . . . 

ANATOL {with rather sulky indifference~\. What 
about it? 

MAX. I forgot to order it and I forgot to ask her 
what colour she's wearing. What do you think . . . 
white or red or blue or green? 

ANATOL. Certainly not green ! 

MAX. Are you sure? 

ANATOL. You know she never wears green. 
MAX. How do I know? 

ANATOL. Don't shout! It's nothing to be excited 
about. 

MAX [a little exasperated~\. Do you know what 
colour she will be wearing at your wedding this 
morning ? 

ANATOL. Yes . . . red or blue. 

103 



ANATOL 



MAX. Which? 

ANATOL. What does it matter.^ 
MAX. Damn it ... for the bouquet. 
ANATOL. You order two . . . you can wear the 
other in your hair. 

MAX. That's a silly joke. 

ANATOL [his head on his hand]. I'll be making a 
sillier in an hour or two. 

MAX. You're a cheerful bridegroom ... I must 
say! 

ANATOL. Well . . . I've been very much upset. 

MAX. Anatol . . . you're hiding something. 

ANATOL [with great candour]. Not at all. 

From the bedroom rings a female voice, loud 
and clear, 

THE VOICE. Anatol! 

In the silence that follows max loohs at anatol 
in something more than surprise. 

ANATOL [casually]. Excuse me a minute. 

He goes and gingerly opens the bedroom door. 
A pretty pair of arms appears and rests upon 
his shoulders. In answer to the embrace, for a 
moment his head disappears. He shuts the 
door then and returns to his scandalised 
friend. 

MAX. Well really, Anatol! 

ANATOL. Let me explain. 

MAX. If this is how you begin your married life ... ! 
ANATOL. Don't be an ass. 

MAX. I'm not a moral man myself . . . but hang 
it all! 

104 



THE WEDDING MORNING 



ANATOL. Will you let me explain? 
MAX {looking at his watcK], Hurry up then . . • 
your wedding's at half -past twelve. 
ANATOi.. So it is ! 

He sits silent for a moment; then slowly^ 
begins . . . 

ANATOL. Last night I was at my father-in-law's 
. . . my future father-in-law's. 

MAX. I know that. I was there. 

ANATOL. So you were ... I forgot. You were all 
there. You were all very lively. There was lots of 
champagne. A lot of you drank my health . . . and 
Sophia's health. 

MAX. I drank your health . . . and her health . . . 
and wished you both happiness. 

ANATOL. So you did. Happiness ! Thank you 
very much. 

MAX. You thanked me last night. 

ANATOL. They kept it up till past twelve. 

MAX. I know. I kept it up. 

ANATOL. They kept it up till really ... I thought 
I was happy. 

MAX. Well , . . that's enough about that. 

ANATOL. That fellow Sophia was in love with as a 
girl . . . ! 

MAX. Young Ralmen.f^ 

ANATOL. Silly young ass . . . writes verses ! Sort 
of fellow who seems to be everybody's first love and 
nobody's last. 

MAX. Hadn't you better come to the point? 

ANATOL. I didn't mind his being there ... it rather 

105 



ANATOL 



amused me. We broke up about half-past twelve, 
didn't we? I gave Sophia a kiss . . . and she gave 
me a kiss. No . . . she gave me an icicle. My teeth 
just chattered with it as I went downstairs. 
MAX. Well? 

ANATOL. There were three or four of them still on 
the doorstep . . . and they wished me happiness all 
over again. And Uncle Edward was quite drunk 
and would insist on kissing me. And Professor 
Lippmann sang a comic song ... in the street. Then 
Sophia's first love turned up his coat collar and went 
off . , . on the tiles. And then somebody ... I for- 
get who that was . . . said of course I'd spend the 
night under Sophia's window. Damn nonsense ... it 
was snowing! And after a bit they'd all tailed off 
. . . and there I was alone. 

MAX \_to express some sympathy']. T-t-t! 

ANATOL. Alone, in the cold and the snow! Great 
big flakes . . . perfectly beastly. 

MAX. So what did you do? 

ANATOL. So . . . I thought I'd go to the ball at 
the Opera. 
MAX. Oho! 

ANATOL. And why not? 
MAX. Now I'm afraid I understand. 
ANATOL. Not at all! There I stood in the cold 
and the snow . . . ! 

MAX. Teeth still chattering. 

ANATOL. It was beastly cold. And it sud- 
denly came over me . . . made me perfectly wretched 
. . . that I wasn't going to be a free man any more. 

106 



THE WEDDING MORNING 



Never more a joUy bachelor! Never to go home 
again without some one asking where you've been. 
I'd had my last night out. I'd been in love for the 
last time. 

MAX. Get on. 

ANATOL. They were in full swing at the Opera. 
I watched for a bit. Oh . . . that swish of a silk 
petticoat ! And don't a girl's eyes shine through a 
mask.^ It makes her neck look so white. Then I 
just plunged into it all. I wanted to breathe in the 
sound and the scent of it . . . to bathe in them. 

MAX {^consulting his watch again^. Time's getting 
on. What happened then.^ 

ANATOL. Was I drunk with champagne at papa- 
in-law's ? 

MAX. Not a bit. 

ANATOL. I got drunk with that dancing , . . mad 
drunk. It was m y Opera ball . . . given on purpose 
to say good-bye to poor bachelor me ! I say . . . 
you remember Katinka? 

MAX. Green-eyed Katinka! 

ANATOL. Tsch! 

MAX points to where the voice came from, 

MAX. Is that Katinka.? 

ANATOL. No, it just isn't Katinka. Green-eyes 
was there, though! And a pretty, dark girl called 
. . . no, never you mind about her. Do you remember 
the tiger-lily girl that Theodore . . . ? Lisa ! I didn't 
see Theodore . . . but we didn't look far for him. I 
could tell them all through their masks. I knew 
their voices ... I knew their ankles. One girl I 

107 



ANATOL 



wasn't sure about. And whether I was running after 
her or she after me . . . ? But something in the way 
she swung her shoulders . . . ! And we met and we 
dodged, and at last she caught me by the arm . . . 
and then I knew her right enough. 
MAX. An old friend .^^ 

ANATOL. Can't you guess? When did I get en- 
gaged? It's not more than two or three months 
ago. That meant the usual lie . . . Going away for 
a bit . . . back soon. 

MAX points again. 

MAX. Lona? 
ANATOL. Tsch! 

MAX. What . . . not even Lona? 

ANATOL. Lona right enough . . . don't fetch her in 
yet. We went and sat under a palm. Back again 
. . . she said. Yes ... I said. When ? . . . she said. 
Not till last night. Why haven't you written . . . 
where on earth have you been? Off the map ... I 
said . . . but I'm back again, and I love you still. 
And don't I love you still ? . . . she said. And the 
waiter brought the champagne. We were very happy. 

MAX. Well . . . I'm blessed. 

ANATOL. Then we got into a cab . . . just as we 
used to. She put her head on my shoulder. Never 
to part she said . . . and went to sleep. We didn't get 
back till seven. She's still asleep . . . was, when you 
came. 

The story over, he sits contemplating the world 
generally with puzzled distress. max 
jumps up. 

108 



THE WEDDING MORNING 



MAX. Anatol . . . come to your senses. 

axatojl. Never to part ! And I've got to be mar- 
ried at half-past twelve ! 

MAX. Yes ... to somebody else. 

AX'ATOL. Isn't that just like life? It's always 
somebody else one gets married to. 

MAX. You ought to change . . . you've not much 
time. 

ANATOL. I suppose I'd better. \_He studies the bed- 
room door doubtfuUif, and then turns to his friend.^ 
AXATOL. You know . . . looked at in a certain 
light this is pathetic. 

MAX. It's perfectly disgraceful. 
Ax-ATOL. Yes ... it is disgraceful. But it's very 
pathetic, too. 

MAX, Never mind that . . . 3'ou hurr}' up. 

At this moment the door opens and loxa -first 
puts her head round it and the?! comes in, 
A handsome shrew. She is still in her fancy 
hall dress; the domino thrown over it malt- 
ing an excellent morning wrap. 
LOXA. Oh . . . it's only Max. 
MAX. Only Max. 

LOXA. Why didn't you tell me? . . . I'd have come 
in before. How's Max . . . and what do you think 
of this ruffian? 

MAX \Jeelingly'\. I think that's just what he is. 

LOXA. I've been crying my eyes out for him for 
months. And all the time he's been . . . where have 
you been? 

AXATOL \_with picturesque vagueness']. Over there. 
109 



ANATOL 



liONA. Didn't he write to you either? But now 
I've got him safe, he doesn't get away again. Never 
to part, darhng ! Give me a kiss. 

ANATOL. No . . . really. 

LONA. Max doesn't mind \_taMng his chin between 
-finger and thumb, she secures her hiss^. What a 
face ! Look pleasant. Let's all have breakfast and 
be happy. 

She settles herself most domestically at the little 
table and begins to pour out tea. anatol 
loohs on miserably, 
anatol. Certainly. 

MAX. Lona, I'm afraid I can't stop . . . thanks very 
much. {Then glancing at the wretched anatol.] 
And I really don't see . . . 

LONA. What don't you see.'^ 

MAX. Anatol ought . . . 

LONA. What ought Anatol? 

MAX. Anatol, it's high time that you . . . that 
you . . . 

LONA. High time for what? 
MAX. He ought to dress. 

LONA surveys him in his queer costume without 
any disapproval, 
LONA. What's the hurry? We'll stop at home to- 
day. 

ANATOL. My dear ... I am afraid I can't. 
LONA. You can if you try. 
ANATOL. I'm asked out. 

LONA. You send a message and say you can't go, 
MAX. He must go. 

110 



THE WEDDING MORNING 



ANATOL \^with desperate inspiration^. I am asked 
to a wedding. 

LONA. Oh . . . that don't matter. 

ANATOL. But it does matter. I'm . . . what you 
might call the best man. 

LONA. Is your bridesmaid in love with you.'^ 

MAX [who has followed these efforts encourag- 
aginglyl. We won't go into that. 

LONA. Because I am ... so he'd much better stop 
at home with me, 

ANATOL. My dear child, I m u s t go. 

MAX. He really must. 

ANATOL. For a couple of hours. 

LONA. Sit down, both of you. How many lumps. 
Max.? 

MAX thinks it tactful to obey. 
MAX. Three. 

LONA [to ANATOL, with a fond smile~\. How many 
lumps, darling.?^ 

ANATOL. I ought to be gone now. 

LONA [with loving severity^. How many lumps? 
ANATOL sits down helplessly. 

ANATOL. You know I always take two. 

LONA. Cream or lemon? 

ANATOL. You know I take lemon. 

LONA. Lemon and two lumps of sugar. Those 
are his principles. 

MAX. I say ... I must be off. 

ANATOL. No . . . no . . . no. 

LONA. Drink your tea first. Max. 

The two drink their tea, unhappily » Then . . • 
111 



ANATOL 



ANATOii. My dear child ... I simply must go and 
change. 

I.ONA. Good goodness ! . . . what time is this silly 
wedding .^^ 

MAX. Half-past twelve. 
LONA. Are you asked, too.? 
MAX. Yes. 

LONA. Who's the man.? 
ANATOL. No one you know. 
LONA. But who? Not a secret, is it? 
ANATOL. The whole thing's a deadly secret. 
x,ONA. With a best man and bridesmaids? Non- 
sense. 

ANATOL [explicit^. You see ... his people . . . 

LONA. You're both dear boys . . . but you are 
telling lies. 

MAX {with dignity'\. I beg your pardon. 

LONA. God knows what it's all about, but it 
doesn't matter. You go where you like. Max . . . 
Anatol stops with me. 

ANATOL Is getting desperate. 

ANATOL. I tell you I can't. The man's my best 
friend. I must get him married. 

LONA {prettily to max]. Shall I let him go? 

MAX. Dear Lona ... I think you'd better. 
The tension is a trifle relieved, hut . . . 

LONA. Where's it to be? 

ANATOL [very uneasilyl. What do you want to 
know that for? 

LONA. I'd like to go and look on. 
ANATOL. You mustn't do that. 

112 



THE WEDDING MORNING 



LONA. I must have a look at your bridesmaid, 
Anatol. Best men marry bridesmaids, don't they? 
I can't have you getting married ... so make up 
your mind to that. 

MAX. What would you do if he did? 

liONA [^with perfect simplicity^. Forbid the banns. 

ANATOL. Would you now? 

LONA. Or I might make a scene at the church. 
MAX. That's commonplace ... I shouldn't do that. 
LONA. No . . . one ought to invent something 
new. 

MAX. Such as ... ? 

LONA. Turning up at the wedding . . . dressed like 
a bride too ! That'd be striking. 
MAX \^drily'\ . Verj^ ! I must go. 

His decisive getting up encourages anatol. 
ANATOL. Look here, Lona ... I simply must 
change. I shall be late! 

In comes franz with a bouquet swathed in its 
tissue paper. 
FRANZ. The flowers, sir. 
LONA. What flowers? 

Wherever anatol may wish his man, he does not 
send him away, so franz, though not with- 
out a sly looh at lona, repeats politely . , . 
FRANZ. The flowers, sir. 

ANATOL tahes them silently, and franz departs. 
LONA. Still got Franz, have you? You said you 
were going to get rid of him. 

MAX. And I almost think you'd better, Anatol. 
LONA. Let's see. 

113 



ANATOL 



MAX. It's the bouquet for his bridesmaid. 

LONA detaches one wrap of the paper. Orange 
blossoms! 
LONA. It's a bride's bouquet ! 
ANATOL [with great readiness']. Well, I say ... if 
they haven't sent the wrong one ! Franz . . . Franz ! 
He carries it off. 
MAX. And the wretched bridegroom has got his! 

ANATOL serenely returns. 
ANATOL. I've sent Franz back with it. 
MAX. And I really must go. 

He hisses lona's hand and is off. anatol 
catches him half through the door. 
ANATOL. What the devil shall I do? 
MAX. Confess. 
ANATOL. How can I? 
MAX. I'll come back soon. 
ANATOL. Do ... for goodness' sake. 
MAX. But what colour will your cousin be in.^ 
ANATOL. Blue ... or red. 
MAX. Damn! 

ANATOL most unwillingly shuts the door on him, 
for no sooner has he than lona is round 
his neck. 

LONA. Thank goodness he's gone . . . darling. 

ANATOL. Darling! 

LONA. Be nicer than that ! 

ANATOL. I said Darling. 

LONA. Must you go to this silly wedding.? 

ANATOL. I'm afraid I must. 

LONA. Shall I drive with you to the church? 



THE WEDDING MORNING 



ANATOii. Better not. I'll see you in the evening. 
You've to go to the theatre. 

liONA. I'll send and say I'm ill. 

ANATOL. I wouldn't. I'll come and fetch you. 
Now I m u s t dress. Lord . . . look at the time ! 
Franz! Franz! [franz is there.~\ Have you put out 
my things.^ 

FRANZ. Your wedding things, sir? 

ANATOL l^veri/ steadily^. Yes . . . the things in 
which I always go to weddings. 

FRANZ. I will see to it, sir. 

ANATOL. After the theatre then . . . that's settled. 

LONA. And I thought we'd have such a jolly day. 

ANATOL. Don't be childish. Jolly days have to 
give way to more important matters. 

LONA is round Ms neck again. 

LONA. I love you dreadfully. I don't know what's 
more important than that. 

ANATOL [a5 he removes her^. Then you'll have to 
learn. 

FRANZ passes through from the bedroom saying . . . 
FRANZ. Everything's ready, sir. 
ANATOL. Thank you. You've a lot to learn yet. 
Into the bedroom he goes, and his talk — or rather 
his shouting — from there is muffled by the 
changing of vest and shirt, and punctuated 
by the tying of ties and slipping in of studs 
and the brushing of hair, lona, left 
alone, twists discontentedly about the room. 
LONA. Are you really going to change .^^ 

115 



ANATOL 



ANATOL.. I couldn't go to a wedding like this, 
could I? 

I.ONA. Must you go ? 

ANATOL. Don't let's begin it all over again. 
LONA. I shall see you this evening? 
ANATOL. After the theatre. 
LONA. Don't be late. 

ANATOL ^blandly']. Late! Why should I be late.^ 
LONA. You kept me waiting an hour once. 
ANATOL. Did I? I dare say I did. 

LONA is still on the prowl, 
LONA. Anatol . . . you've got a new picture. 
ANATOL. Yes ... do you like it.^ 
LONA. What do I know about pictures .^^ 
ANATOL. It's quite a good one. 
LONA. Did you bring it back with you? 
ANATOL \^puzzled^ . Bring it back ! 
LONA. From where you went away to. 
ANATOL. Of course . . . from where I went away 
to ! No ... it was a present. 

Silence for a moment, A shade of half-angry 
cunning falls on lona's face. 
LONA. Anatol. 
ANATOL. What is it.? 
LONA. Where did you go.'^ 

ANATOL. I told you. 

LONA. You didn't. 
ANATOL. I did . . . last night, 
LONA. I've forgotten. 
ANATOL. I went to Bohemia. 
LONA. Why Bohemia.? 

116 



THE WEDDING MORNING 



ANATOL. Why not? 

LONA. Were you shooting? 

AXATOi.. Yes . . . rabbits. 

LONA. For three months? 

ANATOL. Every day. 

It sounds as if he were rearing slightly under 
this spur of cross-examination, 

I.ONA. Why didn't you come and say good-bye to 
me before you went? 

ANATOX. I just thought I Wouldn't. 

LONA. Tried to give me the sHp, didn't you? 

ANATOL \_ironically bland^. No . . . no . . . no . . . 
no . . . no . . . 

LONA. You did try once. 

ANATOL. I tried. 

LONA \^sharply^. What's that? 

ANATOL. I said I t r i e d. I tried hard . . . but 
it didn't come off. 

LONA. I should think not . . . and it's not likely to. 

ANATOL. Ha ha ! 

LONA. What did you say? 

ANATOL. I said Ha ha. 

LONA. It isn't funny. Glad enough to come back 
to me that time . . . weren't you? 
ANATOL. That time. 

LONA. So you are this time. Just a little bit in 
love with me . . . aren't you? 
ANATOL. Worse luck. 
LONA. What? 
ANATOL. Worse luck. 

117 



ANATOL 



LONA. Yes . • . shout it from the next room. You 
dare say that to my face? 

ANATOi. sticks round the door a head undergo- 
mg a hairbrush. 
ANATOii. Worse luck! 

X.ONA makes for it, hut it disappears and the' 
door closes. She calls through the crack. 
liONA. What do you mean by that, Anatol? 

It is getting to be rather angry chaff, this. 
ANATOL. Things can't go on hke this for ever. 
xoNA. What? 

ANATOX.. They can't go on for ever. 
I.ONA. Can't they ? Ha ha ! 
ANATOL. What? 

LONA, with some violence, tugs the door open. 
LONA. I said Ha ha. 

ANATOii. Shut the door . . . shut the door. 

He slams it to. 
XONA. No, my darHng . . . you don't get rid of me 
in a hurry. 

ANATOL. Think not? 

LONA. I'm sure not. 

ANATOL. Quite sure? 

LONA. Quite • . . quite . . . quite sure. 

ANATOL. You can't hang round my neck for ever. 

LONA. We'll see about that. 

ANATOL. Don't you be silly. 

LONA. Do you see me giving you up? 

ANATOL. When you can't help it. 

LONA. When will that be? 

118 



THE WEDDING MORNING 



ANATOL. When I get married. 

The lady, whose eyes are flashing now^ begins 
to drum the door with her fingers, 
LONA. And when will that be . . . my precious ? 
ANATOL [^unkindly mimicking']. Soon... my pre- 
cious. 

LONA. How soon? 

The drumming grows louder. 
ANATOL. Don't bang on the door. This time 
next year I may be quite an old married man. 
LONA. Fool! 

ANATOL. Suppose I get married in a month or 
two.'^ 

LONA. Some one simply waiting to marry you? 
ANATOL. There is . . . at this very moment. 
LONA. In a month or two? 
ANATOL. Or even less. 

LONA laughs with great derision. 
ANATOL. You needn't laugh. I'll be married in a 
week. 

LONA still laughs. 

ANATOL. You needn't laugh, Lona ! 

LONA tumbles herself on the sofa, she is laughing 
so much. And then anatol walks in, sprucely 
dressed: coated, hatted, and gloved for his 
wedding; very self-possessed, moreover, now. 

ANATOL. I said you need not laugh. 

LONA. When are you going to be married? 

ANATOL. At half-past twelve. 

She stops very short in her laughter. 

LONA. What? 

119 



ANATOL 



ANATOL. At half -past twelve, my dear. 
I.ONA. Anatol, don't be silly. 

ANATOL. I am perfectly serious. I am going to 
be married at half-past twelve to-day. 

By this she is taking it in and her breath is 
leaving her. 
LONA. Are you . . .? 
ANATOL. Franz! 

FRANZ is at the door. 

FRANZ. Sir? 

ANATOL. Bring those flowers. 

LONA. Anatol . . . ! 

FRANZ brings in the orange blossoms which were 
not sent back, lona understands now. She 
makes a grab at them, franz is too quick 
for her and secures them to anatol, and then 
departs again, suppressing a grin. 

LONA. It's true. 

ANATOL [^coollyl, Quite. 

But LONA is not to be conquered with coolness 
now. It seems that she is endowed with the 
very rare faculty of losing her temper. She 
suddenly makes for anatol and the bouquet 
with such complete abandonment of the con- 
ventions of civilisation that, with no manly 
dignity at all, he bolts from her. 

anatol. Wha.t are you up to ? 

LONA. You beast . . . you beast. 

It^s the bouquet seems most to excite her and iVs 
that she's after, anatol, other methods of de- 
fending it failing, jumps on a chair at last 
120 



THE WEDDING MORNING 



and holds it above his head, at which moment 
MAX arrives bach dressed for the wedding 
too and with his bouquet: pink roses. 
ANATOL. Here . . . Max . . . help ! 

The ever-obliging max incautiously comes near. 
Pink roses are better than nothing to loxa, and 
with one snatch she has them from him and 
with half-a-dozen pulls she has them in pieces 
and under her stamping feet, max is in agony, 
max. Lona . . . don't do it ! It's my bouquet ! 
[He surveys the wreckage,^ Well . . . now what shall 
I do? 

The lady having sated her natural lust for the 
destruction of something — anything; bursts 
into violent tears, and abandons herself to the 
sofa. AXATOL addresses the situation, still 
standing on the chair, 
ANATOL,. Oh . . . she has been riling me ! Now 
start crying, of course. I told you not to laugh! 
Said I daren't run away from her . . . said I daren't 
get married. So now I shall . . . just to spite her. 
In pursuance of which he gets off the chair. But 
LOXA has another fit of fury . • . 
LONA. Sneak ! Liar ! 

So on he gets again. Again she tumbles down 
exhausted. Poor Max meanwhile collects 
the remnants of the roses, 
MAX. I say . . . look at my flowers. 
LONA. I thought it was his. I don't care. You're 
as bad as he is! 

121 



ANATOL 
ANATOL. Do be reasonable. 

LONA [flinging her wrongs to heaven^. Reasonable! 
When you treat me like this! But you wait! I'll 
show you ! You'll see ! 

She jumps up and makes for the door. By good 
lucJc MAX is in the way. 
ANATOL. Where are you going? 
LONA. You'll soon see. You let me go! 
MAX [his hack to the door and holding tight to the 
handle"] . Lona . . . what are you up to ? 
LONA. You let me go! You let me go! 
ANATOL. Be reasonable. 
LONA. You won't . . . won't you ! 

She then proceeds to wreck the room. The tea- 
pot goes into the fire and the teacups out of 
the window. The table goes over and so do 
the chairs. A cigar box smashes the new 
picture and cushions fly around, max and 
ANATOL do nothing. What can they do? 
Her work accomplished, the lady has vio- 
lent hysterics. When the tumult has a little 
subsided says anatol . . . 
ANATOL. Oh . . . I say ! Why get married when 
you can have all the comforts of home without it? 
And they gaze at the patient awhile. 
ANATOL. She's getting quieter. 
MAX. But we must go. And look at my flowers! 

FRANZ comes in to announce . . . 
FRANZ. The carriage is at the door, sir. 
And goes out again. 
122 



THE WEDDING MORNING 



ANATOL. The carriage! What am I to do? 

He sits beside the sobbing lona and takes her 
hand, max sits on the other side, and takes 
her other hand, 
MAX. Lona! \he adds over the top of her head to 
anatol]. Go along . . . I'll put it right somehow. 
ANATOi.. I really must. Poor girl ... I can't . . . 
He is obviously melting towards the sobbing lona. 
MAX. You go along. 

AXATOL. Are you sure you can manage her? 

MAX. Yes . . . I'll follow you. Watch me when I 
get there. I'll wink if it's all right. 

AXATOL. I don't like it . , . poor child. She 
might . , . 

MAX envisages new complications, 

MAX. Will you go ? 

AXATOL. I'd better! 

He gets to the door. His heart melts again 
towards the poor thing who has indeed in the 
last few minutes sacrificed much to her love 
for him. He comes back and kisses the top 
of her head. Then he goes to his wedding, 
MAX, left alone with her, perseveringly 
strokes the hand he holds. She sobs on, 

MAX. Ahum! 

LOXA looks up, 
LOXA. Where's he gone? 

MAX {^securing the other hand'\. Now . . . Lona! 

Only just in time, for she jumps up, 
LOXA. Where's he gone? 
MAX. You'd never catch him. 

123 



ANATOL 



LONA. Yes, I will. 

MAX. Lona • . • you don't want to make a scandal. 
XONA. Yes, I do. Where is the wedding .'^ 
MAX. Never mind. 

She tries to pull away. 
I.ONA. I'm going there ! 

MAX. No, you're not. What good would it do.'^ 

liONA. To be treated like this! 

MAX. Doesn't it always happen? 

LONA. Be quiet with your beastly philosophy. 

MAX. If you weren't in such a temper you'd see 
that you'd only get laughed at for your pains. 

liONA [yiciouslyl. On the wrong side of their 
mouths ! 

MAX. Think now . . . there are lots of good fish in 
the sea. 

liONA. That shows how much you know about me. 
MAX. Suppose he were dead or gone abroad? Sup- 
pose you'd really lost him . . . and no help for it. 
3LONA. What d'you mean by that? 
MAX. It's not so much you that he's treating 
badly . . . Suppose he leaves her some day . . . ! 
Wait and see. 

She has calmed a little to the influence of his 
smooth voice. And now her face lights up 
with the wildest triumphant happiness. 
LONA. Oh ... if I thought he would ! 

MAX lets her go. 
MAX. That's nice of you. 

LONA. Let me just get a bit of my own back! 
MAX. Hell knows no fury like a woman scorned. 



THE WEDDING MORNING 



LONA. No, it doesn't . . . does it ? 

MAX. That is heroic of you. And while you're 
waiting, can't you avenge your whole sex on every 
man you meet.^ 

I.ONA. I will. 

She is restored to sanity and self-respect, max 
loohs at his watch rather anxiously, 

MAX. Now I've just time to take you home in a 
cab. [He adds half to himself,'] If I don't . . . 
catastrophe for sure! [He offers her his arm,] Say 
good-bye to this happy home. 

XONA. Not good-bye. 

MAX. Till you come back a goddess of vengeance 
. . . though you're really a rather silly woman. Not 
but what that answers the purpose as a rule. 
LONA. For the present. . . . 

Most dramatically, with flashing eyes and curl- 
ing lip she goes off with him, leaving the 
wrecked room. 



125 



JUN 27 li^t 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 
lUN 30 \9t\ 



